Similitudes
by Asso
Summary: There can be many types of similitudes in the universe.   Better. In the universes.
1. Concern

**Similitudes**

**By Asso**

* * *

My dear friends, readers of my stories.

This one, this story that I hope you will enjoy, has a peculiar place and a peculiar meaning.

I don't know if you have read my "Depths", but both to those who did that and to those who did not that, I want to explain that this is a sequel of that story. _("Depths" is not here; it is unfit to this site, because it is NC-17. But if you are older than 18 and if you want to read it, it is on TrianxianSilkj_

"Depths" started from _Harbinger_ and unfolds after it, showing what is obvious - at least for me - namely that the first night of love of our couple wasn't the only one they shared before _Home. _So it is clear that the present story takes place after _Harbinger_.

This story begins from _E2,_ but, as with "Depths," it will unfold for some time after that episode.

I would prefer that you don't have too much information about this story before you read it, because I think it would be better that the surprises that I have in store aren't revealed in advance. (Surprises that I eagerly hope you will appreciate.)

Nevertheless, it's most likely a good thing that I tell you something.

_**First**_: Trip has a certain awareness, as it seems, of T'Pol. She keeps her lips sealed with Trip in the matter of a certain secret little vice of hers, but if Trip...

_**Second**_. Please, do not be fooled by the title. You know, I think that I am a little blackguard. (Hey! In a good way, that's for sure!). Consequently, my dear friends, the title has nothing to do with Sim. He isn't at all involved.

Oh well! "But then why this title?" you would say. Eh my friends, it is "Similitudes" (plural), not "Similitude" (singular). If you want to understand something, take the time to read my story, please.

And try to figure out who (where) is the person who speaks; or, rather, who thinks.

So, my dear friends, have I been capable of arousing your curiosity? I hope so.

And, I hope my dear Dinah, who patiently wanted to help me again, that you will do this endless times yet; because your ability is priceless.

**

* * *

**

_**Chapter One**_

_**Where?**_

Something was wrong.

Trip got up from his desk. He was unable to concentrate that night. He had thought it might be a good thing that he had locked himself in his small office. Trip chuckled without cheerfulness. Well, at least in what remained of his office. His idea had been that in its solitude he would be able to complete all the innumerable things that he hadn't been able to do during the day. Yes, engines were working well, now, but he had to think not only about them; every function on the ship, every repair job depended on him and he had to organize all jobs and all team work so that the ship was able to regain its full operativeness. Even now his people were working hard everywhere, without rest, in the middle of the artificial night of _Enterprise_, following his directives. But the continuing emergency situation they were in, didn't allow him to easily program these directives, and so he had to steal time from his sleep. Trip chuckled again with bitter amusement. Well, obviously no one should be aware of that, above all T'Pol and even less Phlox; otherwise… hell to pay! And also this thought had pushed him to go to his office that night. It was very private, and nobody would think he was there, instead of in his quarters. Most likely T'Pol would, but by now she…

Trip ceased abruptly to giggle foolishly and looked around.

No, it hadn't been a good idea.

The image of T'Pol, sitting on his small sofa, even if nothing remained of it now but a few skeletal fragments, sprang vividly to his mind. It seemed that he was able to smell her fragrance, as at that time. Trip sighed. Deeply. That time had somehow been their first date, when they had worked together to try to figure out that strange thing, that space anomaly, that had pushed the two of them to think that…(*)

And before it happened... for real. (*)

Oh well, admitting that it hadn't already happened someway and somewhere. Neither he nor T'Pol, not to mention the doctor, had talked with anyone of those…of those dreams-not-dreams. Too embarrassing for all of them, especially for T'Pol. (*)

T'Pol… Just her.

Trip sat down heavily. He looked at the screen; no, nothing to do. During the day, the mess which surrounded him was quite able to take his mind off of his nagging thoughts about her, but being alone...

In this way, regardless of anything, even in the upheaval that permeated all things, even in the anguish for the darkness of the future, even… even in the heartbreaking sorrow for the death of his little sister, even in the guilt he felt because of his indulging in such a personal and nearly egoistic feeling while Enterprise, his world, his race, Humanity's destiny, seemed to be racing towards an ineluctable end… even in all that, T'Pol's thought was the black hole which was gulping his brain, distracting him in a way it shouldn't be. And there, in that noiseless and solitary office, tired to the extreme, fully aware that the weight of keeping the ship operational was all on his shoulders, regardless of all this or maybe because of all this, Trip was unable to fight against this haunting thought.

And his mind was working without a pause.

And it perceived that there was something strange.

Something wrong.

_**

* * *

**_

Here?

It was evident for Trip that things weren't going as T'Pol had thought they would; her behaviour was clearly demonstrating that. Oh sure, Trip had been aware of the fact that the change T'Pol had undergone wouldn't allow her to behave as if anything had happened. She didn't know this, she wasn't able. She was a Vulcan, but Trip was a Human. And this had been his hope. Sooner or later, T'Pol would understand.

_She would __**have to**__ understand!_

But there was something beyond all that in T'Pol's behaviour; there was something really wrong.

Too much, too wrong.

_**

* * *

**_

There?

Trip pondered to himself. Regardless that only he was completely privy to the behavioural changes of T'Pol, and, even more, of the true reasons concealed behind them, these changes were a matter of fact, and Trip knew that it wasn't possible for T'Pol to easily accept all that. Or at least… - Trip took a slight sigh - … at least not yet.

Trip made a little bitter smile. Eh sure, most likely he had become by now the greatest expert in Vulcan mindset, particularly – his sad smile deepened a little – in regard to Vulcan females. To one Vulcan female, to tell the truth.

So, that T'Pol's attempt to regain her Vulcan composure would happen to his cost... well, Trip had been aware of that, as well as the fact that all he would be able to do was grin and bear it, exactly... exactly as he had done.

Trip sighed again, with bitter self-pity. By now, that was his road; his liberty was gone, together with his pride. T'Pol had marked him forever; he knew this in all clarity. But Trip also knew, he wanted to have this awareness, that T'Pol's attempt would have been futile.

And here was the point.

Trip began to nervously beat with his fingers on the desk. His mind was going on working. Actually, T'Pol's conduct seemed to give him reason, but, not everything in T'Pol's behaviour was able to be explained in this manner. Yes. There was something else.

And this something else had to be all, except good.

_**

* * *

**_

Here and there?

What was going on?

T'Pol's behaviour looked abnormal. He was able to see that. Let's leave aside the illogic of her conduct - no, even more... her complete lack of control at his harsh remarks when she had stupidly thought of saving the captain by thrusting herself into the wolf's den - was a clear demonstration of an unequivocal deviance in her mind. The real problem was that there was a subtle and constant continuum of perceptible signals, besides that nonsensical intention on her part and besides that unexplainable outburst. She seemed uncertain. She seemed… scared, somehow. She seemed like she was fighting some kind of war within herself, but - Trip didn't know how - he sensed that it wasn't the exact combat that he had expected from her, after the perceptions he had had in their second night of love; or, at least, it wasn't only that kind of fight. (**)Trip was able to detect perfectly all those alarming signals.

Well, obviously nobody was able to detect these signals, nobody else except him.

But he had his good reasons.

_**

* * *

**_

Or here?

Inevitably his mind went back to those nights. Sure, nobody else knew T'Pol better… and deeper… than him. Nobody else knew how passionate and… end even emotional T'Pol was capable of being. Those nights had been...

Oh bah! Enough with this useless fighting within. Stop, stop, stop, stop. AND STOP! Being consumed... this would only make things worse.

He tried to swallow his bitterness. He had to foot the bill. That was the price he had to pay to allow her to control her disquiet; he knew it all along. Too much fear from her, too much confusion and incertitude.

She wasn't yet ready. She was losing her Vulcan composure, and in a certain way, her Vulcan essence.

And so... she had left him.

_**

* * *

**_

Or there?

Somehow Trip was in readiness for that. This... namely that T'Pol would leave him… this would happen. This thought had stirred in the depth of his soul, all along. But he wanted to believe it wasn't the end.

In reality, he knew - someway he had had this awareness since their second night – that his life would be so, henceforth.

T'Pol would use him as a punching bag.

And nevertheless, even if he hadn't had the courage to tell her, he knew that he was in love with her, and he… loved her too much. He wasn't able to help but be her punching bag.

Trip smiled sadly to himself.

But what else could he do? And, to fill up the measure, the irony of all that was that in reality… eh…in reality this unbearable situation was a consequence of T'Pol's weakness. Eh sure; T'Pol's, not his. And all he was able to do was to understand; to force himself to comprehend. He knew that T'Pol needed him even while telling him that she didn't need him, and, consequently and above all, he knew why T'Pol had been unable to leave him.

But… Damnit and damnit and damnit!... He loved her too much to tell her why.

_**

* * *

**_

Where?

Trip laughed with bitter sarcasm within himself.

Oh yeah. He was the truly tough one, not T'Pol, even if the whole world would grin at this statement. But things were so. Now he was aware of that. But he wouldn't reveal such a thing to anyone, not even at gunpoint, not even on pain of death, because…

Trip sighed again, more deeply. More sadly.

… _Because he loved her too much._

And so, he had to defend her Vulcaness.

_**

* * *

**_

Here, here.

That was the issue. In order to protect her, even from herself, even from the eventuality that her changing could irreparably hurt her, Trip had been in an impossible position. He couldn't talk about it or, even less, ask T'Pol why she wanted to leave him. He couldn't push her to face herself. But he knew. He had been perfectly aware of why. He knew why, after those marvellous nights, she had wanted to backpedal for the second time. And with those damn words, with those words… purposely… awfully… capable of wounding.

_**

* * *

**_

Or, maybe, there

They resounded in his mind.

"Commander, I suppose I must really thank you. You were truly useful, but now I deem that I have achieved a complete knowledge of the subject. I am an expert, as much as suffices, now. Any further exploration of Human sexual behaviour is not needed anymore."

He had felt his hands itch.

_**

* * *

**_

Or both here and there?

He felt his hands itch even now.

If the first time, the morning after their first night together, he had wanted to strangle her(**), this second time he had wanted to cover her with a hail of blows, to massacre her with his bare hands. And her Vulcan strength couldn't have done anything.

He had been able to stop himself just in time.

_**

* * *

**_

But where?

The first instants had been terrible. Confusion, incredulity, pain… Then, for a moment, he had thought to throw to her another bait, as the first time, when he had told her that there were no reason to interrupt their Neuropressure sessions, so that she might have an excuse to receive him again, without disavowing what she had said. But he hadn't done it. Things were not the same; now, there was too much between the two of them. The causes of her retreating were deeper this time. Trip knew it, and just because of that, he had sensed that she was only partially struggling within because of what she had done; she was also concerned because of her guilty... _her illogically guilty_…awareness of the woman she had become; and because of her fear of the past and of their future.

Some other reason was concealed deep within her.

_**

* * *

**_

Where!

Trip relived his sensations of those moments. Even in the rage and in the pain he had felt, he realized that there was a hidden and upsetting ghost behind T'Pol's inexplicably harsh words. He perceived the existence of this dark shadow in T'Pol since her first attempt to slip away after the night they first made love. And this second time, the hardness per se of her words was the clearest validation of his perceptions. She was no longer capable of repressing what was hidden in her depths, and she was no longer able to share with him days... and nights and still keep her secrets inside her.

She had wanted to escape.

She had **needed** to escape.

_**

* * *

**_

Here, sure. Here.

He hadn't been capable of saying anything. Not even of trying to joke.

He had watched her silently, while she was turning around.

And going away.

_**

* * *

**_

Or there?

And still, even in his speechlessness, even in the dumb anger which gnawed him inside, Trip had sensed that there was something weird.

Unspoken.

Why, after so many tangible proofs that she wanted him and his love... why, even in her blind need to sever their relationship because she was incapable of facing up to her new inner turmoil – unknown to her and, because of that, impossible to be borne by her to such an extent that she felt the need to flee from them – why even in the confusion she felt had T'Pol decided to appear so harsh? There was no reason, at that point. Where was… the logic of that?

_**

* * *

**_

Or there and also here?

Her hidden ghost, the shadow inside her.

Her secret.

But what the hell was the secret she kept encapsulated within, a secret which she was so ashamed of that she felt unable to stay with him because she was aware that it was unfair and impossible not to share all things between lovers and that sooner or later she should reveal to him this infamous secret? Infamous, yes, there couldn't be any other word to define it, because only something really infamous, at least in her belief, could have pushed T'Pol to act so badly, and to pronounce those infamous words in an attempt to hurt him so much that he would definitely send her to the devil.

Trip sighed. But he knew there was nothing which could possibly be called infamous about T'Pol. By now, he knew her well enough to know that nothing less than the best could possibly exist in her depths. The infamy of those words was only the glint of her fear; she was so afraid that she could lose him if he became aware of her secret that she preferred to lose him by the force of a planned rejection.

Better to refuse him than to lose him.

Logical, the Vulcans, aren't they? Or was it the fact that most likely women can't help but be women, all the time and everywhere?

_**

* * *

**_

There, there. Sure, there.

Trip has nearly laughed aloud. The image of T'Pol raising her eyebrow if he had told his idea about women's logic, flashed in his mind.

Then his bitter cheerfulness got drowned in the river of his discontent.

He would no longer be able to chuckle softly inside at the sight of that raised eyebrow, chiding him in a way that T'Pol was wont to do only to him.

Trip sat down slowly on his bunk.

_**

* * *

**_

No. Here.

Yeah, he would no longer be able to relish these sweet sensations.

_**No. Both there and here.**_

Yeah, sure. But… Trip scowled, trying to put some order in his thoughts. But there was more. And this multiplied his worry to the nth power – his worry for T'Pol's health.

_**

* * *

**_

Oh damn! Where?

As he had done during those days, those long, interminable weeks, beaten by the anguish of the ordeal _Enterprise_ was going through and by the anguish due to the fact that he was desperately missing T'Pol, Trip brooded one more time over the more and more evident way with which T'Pol was shutting herself in solitude.

Time had passed after those hurting words from her, and obviously there had been no more neuropressure sessions; they had avoided each other as much as possible. Of course, what else could they have done? Nevertheless, Trip had been able to see her growing uneasiness, at least… Trip clenched his lips strongly … at least until she had decided to avoid everyone. Everyone, not only him.

_**

* * *

**_

Everywhere?

Okay, certainly he was able to understand that T'Pol was trying in any way to avoid him, so she could avoid any question and any possible temptation, but now she was keeping to herself a lot, even more than usual. She was spending every free moment in her quarters, and she even had asked Chef to bring her meals there. He… he hadn't been able to help but inquire about her, more or less discreetly.

But the fact was that T'Pol was no longer the lonely Vulcan from the beginning of their voyage; she was a true member of _Enterprise_, now. And let's suppose that she was also attempting to regain her Vulcaness in this stupid way. Maybe she thought that it was logical, damn her logic and her logical mind! Nevertheless, loneliness wasn't a good thing for anyone, not even for a strong and logical Vulcan, especially in the Expanse. Not to mention that she was skillful enough to be aware of the danger her behaviour could entail, and being the First Officer, it was her duty to care of the crew's health. Consequently, she was even charged with caring for her own health.

And T'Pol never would neglect her duty.

_**

* * *

**_

What? Everywhere?

Trip got up suddenly, suddenly gripped be a sort of hazy fear.

T'Pol... could she possibly be sick?

She looked haggard lately; her skin seemed to have lost its sheeny appearance, and her gleaming eyes looked less vivid. Maybe the others were unable to perceive those changes in her, but he, Trip, was; oh yes, he was, even for the few, short moments he had been able to observe T'Pol.

After all, there could be a good reason for her to be… to be sick: the... the thought of what she had done with him and the thought of what she had done to him afterwards; the secret that he was sure she was hiding inside her; the fight that surely she had waged and was still waging against that secret, both to conceal it and to handle it; and the fight that she was waging against herself and against him, Trip; not to mention the weight of the mission and of her duties...

Wasn't that enough to make her sick? Mentally and maybe also physically?

Okay, she was the strongest person he knew, but enough is enough, both for Humans and for Vulcans.

And the Expanse? Couldn't it affect T'Pol in the same negative way it seemed to affect everything and everyone? Maybe... maybe even more seriously? Trip began to pace the room swiftly, unable to stay still, the fear increasing inside him. And that secret... could it be something connected with that? Could it be… DAMN…DAMN IT! Could it be, by chance, a... a disease? Maybe...maybe a serious illness? What if he totally misunderstood and the fear he felt from T'Pol wasn't the fear of some sort of ignominious thing she kept inside - ignominious in her idea, obviously - but the fear that he, Trip, could reject her because of that disease? People do such strange things, sometimes. There are people who feel ashamed of their illnesses, who think they could be treated badly if their diseases were known, even by those who are the closest to them. Sure, such a thing would seem anything but Vulcan, but what the hell did he know about Vulcans? Did they have such ideas about illnesses? They were such private persons; maybe illnesses were something they wanted to keep inside and that they didn't want to reveal to anyone, even to their mates, in any way and at any cost.

Their… mates.

Trip abruptly stopped his pacing up and down, frowned, and began to rub his palms against each other while tormenting the inside of his cheek with his tongue.

Trip knew, he knew for sure, that he and T'Pol were mates, love mates, by now, even if T'Pol denied it. And mates, love mates, care the deepest for each other. So if T'Pol, by chance… if she was trying… If… if… if T'Pol's illness was truly real and she was not trying to prevent him from becoming aware that she was sick, but, in reality, maybe she was attempting to prevent him from being in pain? Or was she endeavouring to avoid his suffering?

_If she had such a serious disease that… that…_

He... he had seen T'Pol in the sickbay. Headache... She had said she had a headache. A Vulcan with a headache. An excuse, surely. He had merely thought she had wanted to go swiftly from his presence, and it hadn't been easy for him to behave normally. But then, why was she _really_ in sickbay? Headache? And... and what if wasn't it a simple headache? What the hell had really happened on the _Seleya_, on that damned Vulcan ship of death? Oh sure, he knew all about that, and he had cursed the captain from the depth of his heart for having allowed T'Pol to run such risks after having seen the images of what had occurred to the Vulcans who had ventured into the Expanse, those image they had watched just before they had departed for their mission.

But and if in reality he didn't know - exactly, completely - what had happened to T'Pol? If there were some awful consequences for her?

If the feelings, the unspoken love he felt T'Pol had for him was such that... that she had wanted to chase him away by what seemed to her to be the surest way, before their liaison could become too deep. Could it be that she wanted to break off their relationship before he died by… _**by seeing her die**_?

Pearls of cold sweat ran along Trip's back.

That would indeed be in T'Pol's character, as far as he knew; and he knew a lot, now. She only showed the tip of what appeared as an cold iceberg, but hid underwater an enormous mountain of passion.

Of love.

Restrained, bridled, unknown even by her. But it was there.

And love pushes us to do such strange things, such _illogical_ things.

Trip started to open and close his fists, unable to think coherently, incapable of acknowledging the irrationality of the road along which his thoughts had taken him.

He was in despair, incapable of recognizing that there was no solid basis for his fears. Nothing but his despair itself.

_He was merely in despair._

This... no! Lizzie... Lizzie and... and then T'Pol?

T'Pol? T'POL? T'POL!

No! She, no!

Let her stay away from him, let her be only a heartbreaking and never-fulfilled desire. But she had to be here. SHE HAD TO BE HERE!

It was not possible that things would end like this. IT WAS NOT POSSIBLE!

It was inconceivable. Unacceptable. Il... illogical, damn it!

It was, it was...

_**

* * *

**_

But not! It's here!

It was... delirious!

All of a sudden, Trip became aware of the course of his thoughts. And they were delirious. He was building in his mind a construct sine materia, without substance; he was giving body to shadows, drowning in a sea without water.

He plopped heavily down on his bed.

He wearily rubbed his hands on his face.

God, he was so tired.

He had always had a runaway imagination. Nobody who hasn't plunged into studies as hard as those he had to cope with to become a capable engineer is able to understand how vivid fantasies cannot be separated from the logical perspicuity needed by science. But those images weren't part of his lively imagination; they were dreams, nightmares. Sure! Empty nightmares devoid of any reality! The only reality was that he was tired, damned tired, and his mind was losing itself in its exhaustion.

_**He**_ was losing himself in his exhaustion, in his prostration. Trip looked ahead, without seeing anything. _In his solitude. In his harrowing desire_.

His need.

For his T'Pol.

_**

* * *

**_

Or there?

Eh sure. Sure. Fantasies. Frothy figments of his jaded brain. Of the gruelling pain of his soul.

And yet...

Trip got up again, crossing his arms over his chest. Frowning, he wrinkled his forehead and fixed his eyes ahead, as if observing in the air the image of the tangled feelings he had inside.

As if seeking...

And yet, the hidden secret did exist. There was something that tormented T'Pol, he was certain. And T'Pol was behaving very oddly. And... Trip lowered his chin on his chest. And it was true that T'Pol didn't look well.

She was suffering.

Trip uncrossed his arms and clenched his fists and his lips and his eyes.

T'Pol was suffering.

And he couldn't allow this.

Trip felt a sort of blind rage within.

He couldn't. He had to stop this.

Whether the matter was the secret he suspected or not, whether it was her struggling within for what she had done or even for what she hadn't done, whatever the hell it was, he had to stop T'Pol's suffering.

He had to do something. NOW!

Trip turned around and headed for the door, taking great strides. He opened it and dashed outside.

It was late. Okay! To hell if it was late! To hell if she didn't want to see him! To hell if she had chased him away! To hell with everything!

T'Pol needed him! SHE DID NOT HAVE TO SUFFER!

_**

* * *

**_

Or here?

_To hell, to hell, to hell!_

_To... to hell..._

T'Pol's door was in front of Trip.

_To... hell..._

He halted, and stared at the closed door.

_To... _

There, before that door, his rampage came to an end, suddenly, as an impetuous wind which turns into a faint breeze.

Beyond it, inside, there was T'Pol.

The woman who had changed his life - who had given him life again and who then had taken away it from him.

With those words.

And he had no longer entered her room after those words from her.

After their last night of love.

Hesitant, uncertain, he was standing in front of that door, gazing at it, unable to come to a decision. To push the doorbell.

What should he do? Did he dare go inside? And why? How? What words should he say? What reasons could he give T'Pol for his visit to her quarters at this hour?

And... how strongly would his heart beat, entering that room which had been the coffer of their love? How would this heart react, seeing T'Pol there again, kneeling on the cushions for her meditation, as he knew she was doing just then? Did he dare look at her in the sweet and enchanting half-shadow of the candlelight that had enwrapped their moments of passionate intimacy? Would she be dressed for the night, the pyjamas which his greedy hands had removed so many times from her firm body, with her eager assistance, allowing her to give herself to him?

Trip continued to stand there, motionless, rubbing his palms against his trousers, tormenting his tongue between his teeth, against his cheek.

The sensations of their love filled his soul. He relived again the anticipation he had felt while he was waiting before that door, expecting her call to him to come in her room. The anticipation for her love.

The sensations... and the thoughts.

Trip scowled thoughtfully when he recalled the thoughts he he'd had when he'd unfalteringly resolved to continue to pursue T'Pol - from being the love thorn stuck into her heart, a thorn that she would never be able to extract.

Trip breathed deeply, almost angrily.

_Oh good, man, very good. What a love thorn you are. Really determined, let me say. Are her stubborn attitude and her words clearly said on purpose enough to discourage you? Oh well, in this case, most likely she is absolutely right. What the hell could she do with a man like this one?_

His father's words resounded suddenly and strongly in his mind. "_A man, a gentleman, a true man, cannot have a woman who doesn't want to be had by him. But a man, a gentleman, a true man, if he indeed loves her, has to be ready to pursue her love and to be to her side, if he senses that she needs his help. And this man, if he is a man, mustn't wonder too much. He must merely offer his help discreetly without embarrassing her, without asking anything of her. Because if this man is truly in love with this woman, he has to have only one thought: her happiness. Remember, my son, she is the one who counts, not you."_

Trip, clenched his lips with force.

It was as if his father was there, speaking to him. "_You, YOU, my son, if you really love her, you must offer her your aid, regardless of anything. Regardless of your fear, and of your wounded feelings, regardless of how badly she may have treated you. You must help the woman who helped you, but above all, the woman whom you…_"

… _whom I love._

And Trip rang the bell.

_**

* * *

**_

End of chapter one (Here or there?)

(*) _I have to excuse me, but you should read my story Puck (that is published on this site)__, to fully understand Trip's thoughts._

(**) _And here – you must excuse me again - you should read my Depths (that, as I said, is published on TriaxianSilk__). But if you prefer not do that because of its rating (NC 17), please, let me say that you can understand the present story independently of that other story._


	2. The Road to Hell

**Similitudes**

**By Asso**

**Chapter Two – The Road to Hell**

* * *

_**A/N.**_

_**1)**__ And so, my dear friends, here we go. For various reasons, very long time has passed since the first chapter of this story was published, so I thought it might be useful to summarize very briefly what has happened so far. In fact ... well ... nothing. Yes, because what we have seen is only a Trip full of worries: after that famous first night, there have been other nights and he is sure that T'Pol loves him, maybe in her way of Vulcan female, but it is. _

_He, on his part ... Well, my friends, do you have doubts? _

_Why is he worried? Well, but because things do not square with T'Pol, no, not at all. And the fact is that they do not fit inside her: she has something inside and she hides him._

_He knows it, feels it._

_Let's not repeat everything word for word, now. Suffice it to say that we left Trip before the door of T'Pol's room. Do you remember? He has just rung her bell. His heart is in pieces. She leaved him in a bad way (well, actually, if you read the first chapter, I think you will agree with me that this is really a euphemism!)_

_But Trip is truly a gentleman and - especially - is madly in love with T'Pol. Times are not yet mature enough to shout it from the rooftops, if ever these__ times will arrive one fine day; but in any case now he knows with absolute cognizance, he is perfectly conscious._

_And who knows if because of this fact and/or because of some reason connected with this fact__… You know, there is something that has happened just since that first night of love, something ... mah… something about which there is "something else" that whirls in the recesses of Trip's mind and, perhaps, even this "something" and this "something else" will come to light in that fine day, will find an explanation._

_Oh well, without going too much in depth, matters is that Trip doesn't see T'Pol well. She has something._

_He knows it, feels it._

_So he must - absolutely must - help her._

_**2)**__ Just to make sure that you are able to get orientated: we are always in E2, I mean the episode, because in regard to the physical place where they are, our dear Trip (and his loved T'Pol) ... Well, okay, my friends, let's continue the game. Now, we're __**here**__, however we're also __**there**__. Soon music will change, but for now this is the leitmotiv. Please, a little patience, just a little, a little yet. Just as much as it is still needed._

_**3)**__ Just two last things_

_**One.**__It is good that I warn you, my dear friends. Here it is truly displayed how it can be, __**The Road to Hell.**_

_**Two.**__Thanks, __**Linda, **__once again. Thank you endlessly, my dearest friend, my wonderful Beta._

* * *

**Chapter Two – The R****oad to Hell**

Her voice.

*_Her voice. Her... Oh come on! What the hell are you doing? She told you to come in, so enter, you idiot! Are you bogged down? Stuck? Stunned at the mere thought of her voice? Because you know she is there, that she doesn't expect you? That she is alone?_*

Alone. Yeah, alone. But she was always alone, even when she was with others or when she was closed in her room. _Alone in her room._ Like all the times she had waited for him… for him…. to make her not alone anymore.

*_And stop, you fool! Okay, she's alone. So? That's why you're here, man. She is alone, now, more than she ever was. You sense it very well, don't you? Did you hear how her voice sounds weak, tired? Go in, and do what you must do, you idiot! Push the button, she said 'come in'._ *

The door opened.

*_Go inside, Trip_.*

It was dark, as usual.

*_Yeah, as ... as usual._*

There she was.

Sitting on the ground. As usual at this time. In front of the candle. To meditate. As usual.

*_As usual_.*

Her back was to him. Her face was not visible, but you could glimpse the gentle curve of her cheek.

Holy God, how beautiful!

*_Yeah. And haggard, too. But what do you have, my love? But why, dammit, why do not you trust me!_*

A sigh, just one only, just for an instant. Just a moment of weakness. It was granted, wasn't it? **Was it granted, dammit?**

*_Okay. Here we are. Looking to find the right words. And forget ... make no mention of all there was between us._*

"I'm sorry about to bother you. I'm having a little trouble falling asleep. I think my insomnia's come back."

"You're here for neuro-pressure."

*_Oh sure, certainly. Of course. And for what else, if not for this? Stupid woman! Stupid, foolish, stubborn Vulcan! Stupid ... But ... how tired her voice is! How weak. How ... There is a note of ... of ... if she were human I would say ... of despair, in her voice? I know her; I know her, maybe, more than how she knows herself. Come on, man. Do not go back. You're in the game. Let's play. Play along with her._*

"It's been weeks since our last session. We've all been under a lot of stress lately. I thought it might do us both some good."

"I think we should discontinue these treatments."

*_Oh yeah. And have we not already done it, by chance? Have we not stopped our neuro-pressure sessions? And not only that? Oh to hell! Let's drop it! Let's continue to gulp down the cup of gall._*

"Why?"

"You've become quite skilled with the postures I've shown you."

*_But why didn''t I surrender to my first impulse to strangle her, the bloody morning after our first night of love? Why do I have left a glimmer open to her? Why have I given her permission to take possession of me, to play with my heart? But why, why? WHY!_*

He took a deep breath, just how she had taught him so as to take a little of control on oneself.

*_Yes, this way. That's what's needed. And, speaking of need, remember, __**she**__ is in need. Not you_. _Sure._ *

And he, Trip... But what the hell did he need?

Nothing. He needed nothing.

_Just T'Pol_.

*_Come along. Go ahead. After all, it's you the one who wanted this nice conversation, isn't it?_*

"You told me it takes years to master neuro-pressure. I'm not that quick a study."

"I've taught you all I can."

*_Damn you and damn the breed that has generated you! And that taught you to act so! You... you... Oh man, your mom had told you.. 'Watch out, one like you is just made to be torn to pieces by women.' And you were laughing at her words, you fool!_*

But this time was really bad. Damnedly bad.

_*Eh, but when devil have you been so in love, Trip? You know it, there won't ever be__ other woman for you but her. So... Hey, Dad? Don't you have any good advice for me? Come on, Dad. A little help._

_Okay, my son. First of all, you must look straight in her face, with a caring expression. But not too much. And show yourself quiet. Yes, of course. Quiet. QUIET! Haven't you heard? Eh? EH!_

_So, Dad? In this way? Sitting in front of her, with this understanding face? With this slight foolish smile like 'I'm-here-to-help-you-can-do-with-me-anything-you-want-I'm-your-living-punching bag'?_

_Exactly, son. Come on! You can do it. Reme__mber. She as first; then, you._

_Okay, Dad, all right! On like.* _

"Look, truth is I'm sleeping fine. I ain't come for neuro-pressure, I came because I'm worried about you."

"Worried?"

*_Oh Damn and damn and damn again! Dad! But also mom does this to you? She too pretends not to understand when she doesn't know what to do? Parroting what you tell? Or is it just because I stumbled on this damn stubborn woman of a Vulcan?_

_Hey, son! Do not trot out your mother, please! I ... ahem ... I'd rather you did not. Concentrate on what you're doing. Sur__e ... you know it ... women ..._

_Ah, you'd rather I do not, eh? Okay, Dad, understood. I do by myself, I do not bother you anymore. Come on, Trip. Another breath, a... a la T'Pol. Speak again, do as if you had not realized that she understood._*

"You've been keeping to yourself a lot lately, even more than usual. You spend every free moment in your quarters, you even asked Chef to bring your meals here."

"The Mess hall's heavily damaged. Where do you suggest I eat?"

*_I throttle her. I throttle her! I THROTTLE HER! REALLY! But ... why don't you look at me, my love? Why do you lower your eyes? WHY HAVE YOU THOSE DAMN RINGS AROUND THEM? Those shadows under them? Inside them? Why are you so pale and wan?_*

Okay, enough now. Enough. It was time to speak out clearly.

"Come on, you've got to admit you've been avoiding me ever since the two of us, you know, when we…"

"Had sexual relations."

_*__Ah, what hurt, what hurt, what hurt! But why must she have talked like that! After all the passion, all the ... all the love that there had been._

_Yeah. That ... that there had been._

_Hold on. Pret__ends not to notice. Laugh. Joke. In light tone. As she would expect you to do._*

"That's real romantic when you put it that way."

"I told you, what happened was an exploration, not the prelude to an intimate relationship."

*_Oh yes, you were very clear about this, my 'nice' love. And if the first time I could have some doubts, certainly the second time you've done everything to dispel them away completely._

_Those words, those words - damned and nasty ... those words of her__s..."Commander, I suppose I must really thank you. You were truly useful, but now I deem that I have achieved a complete knowledge of the subject. I am an expert, as much as suffices, now. Any further exploration of Human sexual behaviour is not needed anymore."*_

They would continue to spin in his brain until the end of the days, and would never stop hurting him. Never. But there was something more important. Someone.

T'Pol.

*_So, just as if nothing had happened, man. After all, what else are you if not a lab rat? And the lab rats don't have soul that can getting hurt. Mh, and if they had? A toy rubber, yes. Better. The rubber absorbs everything; deforms and then returns how it was._*

"I never said I wanted a relationship."

*_Thus, in this way. In reality it is true, when ever I have said it. When? When, eh, T'Pol? When, stupid fool of a Trip that nothing else you are? As if there was need for words to say things, in these cases. As if not enough the faces, the body language, the actions... those that you, too, had, T'Pol. But let's deny what is undeniable, if this is what you need, at this moment, my love._*

"Neither did I."

*_No, you never said it. Never. Simply, you have wished it; and wanted. Do you really think I'm stupid, my darling? Oh, forget it, man. Not deep thinking. What's the use? And what have I to do to break your shield, my stubborn baby? What? Let's try again. Yes, again. More explicitly_.*

"You helped me get through a rough patch, and I'm grateful. I just stopped by to see if I could return the favour."

"I appreciate your concern, but I'm fine."

*_Ah, you're fine.*_

Sure.

*_Naturally._*

Useless. USELESS! _Useless._

A sigh. of resignation. One last look. Of concern. At that beautiful face and loved. Drawn and haggard.

Stand up. The door. Exit.

Leave.

With empty-handed.

And death in heart.

* * *

It had been awful.

His face.

His handsome face.

Full of concern.

*_For me._*

Those eyes. Those eyes of blue he had.

*_Shining by care for me._*

And she... she had had to be... had had to be ice.

But what else could she have done?

*_I... I can't tell him!_*

She stood up, slowly.

Meditation... futile. She knew it very well. It was quite another thing what she would have needed.

She turned, slowly. Slowly, she started to walk. She began to pace the room in slow steps.

How unvulcan-like!

His arms. His strong arms and gentle.

Around her.

His lips.

Eager and ardent.

Hungry for her.

His warmth.

His smell.

His hands, greedy, everywhere atop her.

And he... he... inside her.

And his love ...

*_His love all around me._*

She stopped. Sighed. Lowered her eyes. Closed her eyelids.

This ... this ... was what she needed.

She would sleep quiet in his arms.

But she could do it never again.

Never again

*_Never again!_*

She could not tell him. How could she do? He .. he ... could despise her. Could reject her with disgust. Her, the proud and noble Vulcan.

A drug addict!

A weak girl, without honour and without backbone.

His love would turn into loathing. And with reason.

Lie. Deceit. Double face.

She was all this.

How could she tell him?

*_But how do I do without him?_*

Yeah, how could she do without him? Yet she had to.

And she was successful. Almost.

But just as she tried desperately to minimize any contact with him, to avoid falling again into his traps of love ... just as she struggled to make sense of the life she would have ...

He had barged in her room.

To provide her his support.

Because he had felt her uneasiness. Her... her illness.

And he had accepted without blinking the chill with which she had treated him.

Because his only thought was her. Her well-being. Regardless of all she had done to him.

And so, behaving in this way, he had managed to make her feel a worm - as if she weren't already feeling guilty and unworthy enough - and to make things abysmally difficult. Like if they weren't already sufficiently difficult.

T'Pol's mind got suddenly filled with the heartbreaking sensations she had felt when she had had to push him away from her without that he could think to fight to avoid it. She had been forced to treat him in a way that not even the worst of executioners would have used towards his victim. Or maybe she had behaved in this way because she was angry against herself, and had vented on him all the rage she felt for herself.

The rage of having rage and being incapable of knowing what to do.

Rage. Sure. Rage. Another Human emotion, one of those that she had wanted to feel.

And that had reduced her so.

Rage. As now.

She stopped abruptly and gnashed her teeth.

Clenching her fists, she barred her eyes and yelled at the air.

"But why don't you leave me in peace? Why do you persecute me? Isn't enough for you having done to me what you did? Isn't enough for you having made me fall in love? With you? Having pushed a Vulcan woman to mate with a Human man? With you? To give her pureness to you? Instead of to a man of her race?"

She raised her voice even more._" _Isn't enough for you to have sunk me in this shame? And in the shame to have seduced you? So shamelessly? To have reduced me to act the way I did?"

Then she lowered her voice, almost speaking to herself. "Isn't enough for you having compelled me to succumb to the fate of which I had foreboding since the first time I met you? "

Abruptly, she closed her mouth.

Aware. Fully aware.

She fixed her eyes ahead, without seeing anything but her thoughts.

Foreboding. FOREBODING! And rage! And even more. Even more! Where had her logic gone?

The smell of him filled her room. It had the same puissance - no, more! - it had when it had claimed her, when she had had the strong feeling that that Human would have her.

And all her logic hadn't been able to prevent her from becoming his.

T'Pol sat down slowly on the floor. She gathered up her legs and held them to her bosom with her arms.

To give strength to herself.

What strength?

She hadn't any strength.

She was weak. _Weak._

She was weak because she was ashamed to be what she was, and was ashamed of being ashamed, and didn't possess even the weakness necessary to cede to her own weakness, to agree to be weak. To accept with weakness - or with strength, she didn't know, she was so confused - that she was in love with Trip. To accept herself for what she was. And that, at heart, she wanted to be.

But she was too weak to accept her weakness, or – perhaps – her strength.

She simply was weak.

Like when she had agreed to practise the neuropressure techniques on him. To help the Commander, how that damned doctor had said, but in reality to have an excuse to share with the Commander, with… with Trip, an intimacy that she eagerly longed for, yet also she feared and did not want while wanting. Damn doctor, damn doctor! Damn meddler of a doctor!

_Weak._ Like when she had searched for strength, that she had not, in the drug. Because she didn't know how to; because she wanted Trip, and wanted to find the strength to love him.

_Weak_. Like when she hadn't been able to resist her jealousy - jealousy! This too! - and her ... her desire ... her... her love - love! Love! LOVE! SURE, LOVE! - and had trapped him in her web, staying entangled in it.

_Weak, weak. _Like when she had been unable to resist his blandishments, the morning after their first night of love, when she hadn't had the strength to persevere in her attempt to withdraw. And not even knowing well why she wanted to withdraw.

And weak like when, in their second night of love, she had decided to still share with him days and nights of love and passion, foolishly and masochistically delaying the moment, the inevitable moment, in which she would be forced to push him away from her. Thus prolonging the time of joy but also of suffering. (*)

Suffering. Suffering, yes. Because... because...

Because she could not do otherwise, could not run the risk that he, even without revealing to him anything, may become aware of her weakness.

She could not. COULD NOT!

She could not ... and to greater reason because she…

T'Pol stood up, jerky, trembling.

Yes, she was weak, like… like now. Like now, because she knew – by now she was very experienced about that - what was about to happen, and knew she didn't have resources. She knew she would have surrendered.

She would. Would fall again; she would succumb once again to her weakness.

Just how often, too often, they do, the drug addicts, drug addicts like her; who struggle inanely, and succumb, and deceive themselves and those who have care of them.

Just as she was doing, with herself and with Phlox.

Just like it would have happened with Trip if he, become aware, had equally been willing to accept her, with all her weakness.

But she didn't want Trip to know her weakness.

She didn't want ... didn't want him to know ... that her ill appearance, which jumped his eyes, as she well knew; that her solitude, deliberately pursued; her physical and mental exhaustion, clearly obvious to him; her restlessness; her uneasiness, were both the cause and effect.

Because so does the drug. It causes your malaise, your being sick, affects your body and your mind and at the same time ends up being the only remedy for the same malaise, the same physical and mental erosion that it itself provoked, in an endless war and exhausting in which every time you think you can win, you lose again.

Like her.

Like her, every time she... had lost again.

* * *

Holy crap, he had never noticed how gloomy and cold it were this corridor, in the artificial night of _Enterprise_.

*_You moron; it's you to be gloomy and cold, things have no souls. The soul, this one it's you to have it. Gloomy and cold._

_Oh bah, to hell! It will pass. Sure, will pass. Everything passes in time. Everything. _

_Are you sure son?_

_Dad! Leave me alone!_

_Son ..._

_I said leave me alone!_

_Son ..._

_Look, I'm in front of my room. Now I come in. Inside I'm safe. I have everything I need, inside. Everything._

_Everything, son?_

_EVERYTHING__, DAD!_*

Well, now he was inside. In his room. Safe. _Safe_. There was everything, there, everything he needed to live, and to be happy if one could feel such a feel in those moments when everyone was ruinously plummeting towards an almost certain death.

Everything.

_*__It is not true, son._

_Dad! But what do I do to chase you away? Get out of my mind!_

_Son, you know that I have nothing to do with your mind. It's you, son. You__.*_

Oh yeah. It was just so. It was his brain that didn't want to resign itself. That didn't cease to think, that continued to macerate, and that worked and worked and worked ...

What should he do? What? He had tried with all his might. He had tried, for the blood of the devil! He had practically covered himself with shit, in the futile attempt to break through the armour of that damn Vulcan female!

*_And with what result? Eh? What?*_

Yeah. But ... she was suffering. She was ill. She was suffering. SHE WAS SUFFERING, blood of Judas!

What was wrong, what was the matter? WHAT DID SHE HAVE? He .. he had to know! He had! Not for himself. For her! FOR HER, for Pete's sake!

He was standing with his back to the door. He hadn't done a single step into his room.

If, before, he could have had doubts, now, after this last damn conversation with her, there, in her room, in that place where she seemed more open, more fragile, almost, maybe because it was where the two of them ... the two of them ...

In that ill light ... that face of her, so faded, so ... well ... looking emaciated; and the pose of her, so drained, without force ...

Her voice… so weak…

And the body... limp ... yes, limp ...

Is was possible that only he could have such a perception?

Okay, he was him, no one could know her better than him, but ...

Okay, surely she was capable of a physical and mental control without comparison, was able to hide really well what she felt and had ...

Okay, okay ...

But ...

Really to everyone?

No one else besides him?

Even the one who, by definition, should be able to detect any signs of physical or mental difficulties in the crew?

Possible?

No! Impossible!

IMPOSSIBLE!

And even if it were ... yes ... if ever, it was needed that that person knew! Absolutely! Because… because…

Maybe he was wrong, was taking fireflies for lanterns, was giving substance to shadows. Was .. was trying to find something that could justify the rejection of T'Pol for him, to find in some way still a faint hope that it was not over, that there could be a remedy.

But what, if he were not in error?

"_And if I were not wrong?_"

A fury. He turned. Opened the door. Went out. Ran, in the empty corridor, under the night lights.

_**And if he were not wrong?**_

* * *

The trembling increased. The hands shook. The throat was parched. There were voices around her; indistinct, confused. Unreal, and yet true. The light... was weird. There was a noisy silence. She had to... she had to...

SHE HAD TO!

She collapsed to the ground; she rolled on herself like an injured doe, on the floor and on the pillows, scattering them everywhere.

"But why, why, why? Why do you do this to me? Why do you be come? Why? WHY?"

She fought. Despaired. But she couldn't win. She would lose again. Another time. He had made explode all her weakness, with his simple presence. He had wanted to help her, and had hurled her in the abyss once again. She couldn't do without him, but she had to. And... she needed help.

HELP!

She snapped sitting on the floor, raised her head, looked at her cupboard, at the locked drawer.

She stood up like a fury, ran to the cupboard, worked frantically on the drawer, tinkering with the buttons of the access code. She opened it wide at last, and looked inside, with feverish eyes, looking for what she needed.

She needed help.

**HELP!**

* * *

_**End of Chapter Two**_

_**TBC**_

_I did warn you, my friends. _

_I __talked about __**the Road to Hell.**_

_Hell exists, my friends. Yes, it exists. But the fact is that many times it is us who build our personal hell, before –__**before**__ – the end of our lifes may really show us if there is a hell, or a paradise, or a purgatory, or whatever you want. And with a laudable ability (laudable?) we succeed to build the road to get to our private hell on earth. _

_And, apparently, all seem to have this not too much enviable ability__. _

_All. _

_Even the Vulcans._

* * *

There are in this chapter many references to my 'Depths', which begins with 'Harbinger', and shows clearly how one night of love was by no means the only, for Trip and T'Pol, that between 'Harbinger' and 'Home' there has been lots of love between the two. However, it is a story a little 'hot', not suitable for this site. If you want, you can find it on TriaxianSilk Archive


	3. The Deceptions of the Mind

**Similitudes**

**By Asso**

**Chapter Three**** – The Deceptions of the Mind**

* * *

_**A/N.**_

_**1)**__**The Road to Hell**__ has been travelled. Just so, my friends. And now, in front of us, there are the gates of darkness. Now... we go to open them wide. We'll see how the devil acts on the minds of those who cross through these gates, in the personal hell on earth that they built for themselves. The devil ... the lord of deceptions ... __**the Deceptions of the Mind. **_

_**2)**__ As for the episode, we are always in E2, whereas about the physical place… __**Here**__ and __**there**__ at the same time, once again, yes, it's so. But it will change sooner or later. No deception on my part, I assure you. I'm not the devil, not at all!_

_**3)**__Just two last things_

_**One.**__Do you remember what I told you in the A/N on the previous chapter? My warning? "It is good that I warn you, my dear friends. Here is truly displayed how it can be, __**The Road to Hell.**__" Okay, I think you have learned, by now, not to underestimate my warnings, so... be careful, my friends, because we are now to penetrate into the darkness that lies beyond the gates of hell, in its world of deception and ruin._

_But ... yeah, maybe I'd better tell you also that often, even in the darkest, you can find a faint light; almost unperceivable, maybe, and yet present._

_My dear readers, I do not want - absolutely I do not want - that you can fall into the gloomiest depression!_

_There is a light! Dim and feeble, but it there is! Did you understand, T'Pol? DID YOU UNDERSTAND?_

_**Two.**__Thanks, __**Linda.**__ Thank you endlessly, my dearest friend, my wonderful Beta._

* * *

**Chapter Three**** – The Deceptions of the Mind**

"Commander?"

"Do… Doctor ! "

"What is going, Commander? It's very late. What's so serious? And why this air, so tousled? What's happening? Judging by the fury with which you came into the sickbay, I thought someone was dying right here in front."

"Eh? Oh, no, no."

"No? By chance your insomnia again? But it must be really bad, to reduce you so."

"Insomnia? Well, in a certain way..."

"I thought T'Pol had solved your problem."

"Doctor, it's just T'Pol. She..."

"Ah, well, Commander. I understand. Of course it would be a very good thing if she were willing to step up neuro-pressure sessions with you, because obviously you are affected by a sharp and very unpleasant recurrence. I'll try to talk to her to convince her. But you must understand: it is difficult that right now, even with her being Vulcan, she has enough head to devote herself to your problem of insomnia. Anyway..."

The doctor stopped suddenly. Oh damn! But what was he saying? By chance, had the Expanse some bad influence on him? The face of the Commander had become extremely alert. The doctor liked not at all the attentive alarmed look that appeared in the Chief Engineer's eyes. And even less the doctor liked the tone he spoke with, and his question per se.

It was just three words, but they weighted as a Medical Dictionary in ten volumes. "What has T'Pol?"

Phlox, cleared his throat. "T'Pol? But nothing, of course, nothing that can be worrying."

The look of Commander Tucker, became even more attentive and alarmed. "Nothing to worry about? This means she has something, though."

"But no, no. Of course things are different now, than when she began her neuropressure sessions with you. Lot of things have happened. The current situation requires her full attention, and..."

Suddenly the doctor broke off again. What the hell was he doing? But how could it come to his mind to give the slightest explanation about the health of T'Pol to Commander Tucker? And how dared this one ask for news on this matter? By what right?

A sudden thought crossed the doctor's brain: or maybe the Commander believed to have this right? Or… or, even, the Commander could really have this right, with very good reasons?

The doctor thought about the rumours about the two Commanders. The neuropressure sessions they shared, had just what was enough to arouse such rumours. And if were these rumours true? If... - Phlox felt a slight knot of embarrass within. But not too much; not too much - ...had his little push worked?

Ah well, well. If it was so, there really was something to congratulate himself with. The able and keen observer doctor he was couldn't help but notice that there was mutual attraction between the two Commanders, although they were both too proud and stubborn to admit it, not to mention the hard obstacle both of the haughtiness, typical of Vulcans, definitely noticeable in T'Pol and just made to irritate Commander Tucker, and of the defiant bravado and impetuous of this one, just made to irritate Commander T'Pol.

Nevertheless the attraction existed. He, Phlox, had noticed it the very beginning, and it was strong, very strong. Those two were like two oppositely charged particles that, when they had touched, perhaps with the dexterous and subtle help of someone ...

So…

Well…the psychological fulfilment is an essential element of good health for everyone, consequently two Commanders psychologically fulfilled would be also two Commanders in good health, and it was his duty as a ship's doctor to ensure that all crew members enjoyed good health, for what the present circumstances could allow, and, in a certain sense, a fortiori in reason of these peculiar present circumstances. Mh ... Well, maybe he could not deny that some role was played also by his natural tendency to meddle into others' affairs, but this was not very important. To think of it, the fact that the two may have developed a feeling ... you know ... _deep_, it could be just what T'Pol needed now. Commander Tucker was surely a brisk and impatient guy, but he was also undeniably extremely inclined to take care of the others' problems, which was very good. And if this 'others'' was the woman that he ...

Hey, but what the heck? What was this his basking in such a self-celebrative self-complacency, so foolish, unnecessary and inappropriate at this time? If Commander Tucker was there to ask him what T'Pol had, this meant that the Vulcan, whether she had become or not ... well, in short, yes... _very close_ to Commander Tucker, she hadn't revealed to him anything about her… health problems, so ...

The doctor felt fit within himself a kind of dull irritation, towards the Commander, of course, who had the nerve to ask him to violate the confidentiality between doctor and patient, but even more towards himself, because he had been not too distant from doing it, foolishly and stupidly.

He looked rigidly at the Commander, trying not to show too much with his words the strong annoyance he felt. "Mister Tucker, I don't think you have the right to ask me anything about Commander T'Pol's health."

And at that moment a strange thing happened.

That Tucker was a brisk and impatient guy, not too much inclined to recede from what he wanted to do, this was a matter of fact; but he wasn't unreasoning, and he was able to listen to and to understand when he was about to exceed the bounds of permissible.

This time it was as if the doctor hadn't even spoken. The Commander came up to the Denobulan, with a look that could appear almost menacing , and spoke, too, in a tone that had something vaguely threatening.

He merely repeated in a low voice the three words he had pronounced at the beginning, and his voice was extremely hard. He claimed a response.

"What has T'Pol?"

The doctor looked at Tucker, surprised and bewildered. What was happening to the Commander? He wasn't him.

What did it mean, all that?

And, at that point, the doctor began to have some odd thoughts.

Could Tucker really have some very good reasons to behave in that way? Reasons not only related with his new… ahem… _position_ towards T'Pol, if what Phlox had thought was true, which was highly probable? Namely, reasons just connected with _this position_, that had most likely allowed the Commander to understand that something was wrong with T'Pol, but that maybe had also allowed him to comprehend that this 'wrong' was more 'wrong' than what Phlox could think?

The odd thoughts of the doctor started to turn into dark thoughts.

Yeah, because he was a good doctor, an expert in many fields. For example, he knew very well how difficult it is for addicts to resist temptation to use their drug, even if they are well cared for and assisted, and how they can be very good at fooling themselves and those who care them. And a Vulcan, then, who was under these conditions, precisely because of the Vulcan great capacity of self-control, might use this ability in order not to fight against drugs, of which he or she has fallen prey, but in order to better deceive the care providers. However, the woman or the man who were for this Vulcan something more than just a colleague or friend ... well this woman or this man almost certainly could see that this Vulcan is not well. Not at all well. Although this woman or this man was unaware of anything. Indeed, if what the doctor knew corresponded to true, it was perfectly possible that the remarkable psychic abilities of Vulcans may be highly increased when they fall in love or whatever they call it, to the point that the _mate_ – yes, this was the term - of a Vulcan may grow into extremely sensitive in perceiving what is happening to his or her Vulcan mate_,_ becoming capable of seeing what escapes to the others and even to the point that the physical and/or mental discomfort of the Vulcan could reverberate deeply and terribly on the mate, to such an extent that this mate can become practically sick in his turn; different from his usual way of being; unstable, irrational. Aggressive, too.

Just as Commander Tucker, now.

* * *

Where was it? Where was? No! It was not possible! It could not be finished!

* * *

The eyes of the doctor scrutinized the sweaty and strained face of the Commander.

His body was stiff and he was clenching his fists.

He appeared even more agitated now, as if there was something stirring within him.

Something violent and overwhelming.

* * *

It could not be finished! She needed it. Needed it! She MUST have it!

* * *

Commander Tucker seemed to shrivel. He bent over himself as pale as a sheet. He was trembling violently. He breathed with difficulty.

The doctor rushed over to him and grabbed him before he could fall.

"Commander! Commander! What is there? What's happening? What do you have?"

* * *

She slammed the drawer. She looked around with wild eyes. She seemed a caged animal.

* * *

Commander Tucker raised his face with effort, looking at Phlox wide-eyed, still juddering visibly. He could not speak. He grabbed the doctor's shoulders with his shaking hands.

* * *

There still has to be some leftover, somewhere! There has to be!

* * *

"Commander, Commander! Mister Tucker! TRIP!"

* * *

The automatic syringe! The last that she had used! In the bathroom!

* * *

The hands of the Engineer were grasping the doctor's shoulders frantically.

The doctor detached them with difficulty, and laid carefully but rapidly the Commander's body on the floor. He ran precipitously to find some medicine.

* * *

Here it is! Much time hadn't passed and it was still in the first aid cabinet. She hadn't used the entire dose. There was still a bit of it! Yes! There was!

* * *

The doctor grabbed the Commander by the hair, soaked with sweat. He tried to make him stay still, to be able to inject the sedative.

* * *

It was only a little, but was enough! At least in this emergency!

* * *

The Commander looked at the doctor with eyes wide open. His pupils were dilated. He was gasping for air.

* * *

Here! Here! So!

The syringe sank into her neck and released its contents.

* * *

The Commander's body arched. His eyes widened even more, he inhaled forcefully.

* * *

T'Pol felt the drug spread in her veins. She calmed down in a blow. She felt her body relax and become limp.

She pulled out the syringe from her flesh, let it fall to the ground. The syringe hit the floor with a thud. T'Pol lowered her eyes, looked down. At her life. At the syringe.

* * *

Suddenly, the Commander made a long and deep sigh, closed his eyes and relaxed. He seemed to let himself go limp.

Phlox stopped his hand armed with the syringe.

* * *

Her life.

In the recesses, dirtied by a drug, of a syringe.

* * *

Phlox laid the syringe on the ground. He grabbed the Commander's wrist.

Pulse regular. Full.

The Commander's eyes were still closed, but his breath was quiet.

He called softly. "Commander Tucker. Mister ... Trip."

The Engineer opened his eyes and looked at the doctor as if he were seeing him from an infinite distance.

* * *

Her life.

T'Pol looked ahead.

*_My life._*

It began to flow before her eyes.

She seemed to see it as from an infinite distance.

* * *

"Commander, are you well?"

The Commander nodded, with effort.

He spoke. His voice sounded weak and uncertain. "Phlox, what happened to me?"

* * *

Her infancy, her youth. Her mother.

Her father, who wasn't anymore.

Her hopes.

What she had done and what she would have wanted to do yet.

Her great-grandmother, T'mir, the first Vulcan woman who met Humans.

Like Trip.

*_Trip._*

Her Trip. Whom she couldn't have anymore.

She spoke, as talking to herself, which Vulcans - the strong and logical Vulcans - never do. Her voice sounded weak and uncertain. "Father, what happened to me?"

* * *

"I don't know, Commander." The doctor pulled out his portable device and performed a medical cursory examination on the Engineer. "Apparently everything is in order. The best thing would be that I may do a full and deep examination on you."

The Engineer shook weakly his head. "No."

* * *

She didn't know and her father, who had been always at her side, seemed being without words.

But she couldn't go on in this way. The best thing would be going to Phlox, telling him that his medicines weren't working and...

She shook weakly her head. "No."

* * *

The doctor looked sternly at Commander Tucker. "Commander, acting as the medical officer of this ship, I could order it."

The engineer looked for awhile at the doctor with strange eyes, from his position, as he was lying on the floor. Finally he nodded. "Help me to get up."

Phlox made no reply, and did what the Commander had asked him, waiting for what he would have decided to do. The Engineer finally spoke with a strange tone, at once tired and decided. "Phlox, you could order it and I should obey. Okay, so let's see, what could happen. I am working very intensely these days and nights, I cannot do otherwise, but I am not short of sleep, not this time: so, you could not find anything in me about that."

He paused briefly, then continued, staring at the doctor straight in the face. "So, what do you expect to find in me? Maybe nothing, maybe you can only advance a reasonable suspicion of stress, more than logical, given the situation we are in and the responsibility that weighs on my shoulders. And, in this case, I believe that you couldn't do anything but give me some good advice and maybe some calming words, or better, some medication. On the other hand, admit it: how could you relieve me from my work, even temporarily, knowing that I cannot be replaced? I am not being boastful, very simply it is a fact. And this is not the time to think it's possible do without me. This is no ordinary time, it is an extraordinary time. We're in trouble, Phlox, large, very large trouble. Without me, we are finished. And you know it."

Another very brief pause, then, in a manner increasingly stringent and cogent: "But let's assume that you may find something in me, I don't know what. Would it change anything? Could do you otherwise? Could you think to relieve me from my work, now, in the circumstances in which we find ourselves? Or would you give me, quite simply, something, some good advice or better, some medication? Just like in case you don't find anything? Which is, on the other hand, what your previous medical examination seems to attest, even in its haste and its lack of depth. But you're a very capable and experienced doctor, Phlox, aren't you? I believe that you could very hardly be wrong, in your job."

The doctor didn't even have time to absorb the exact meaning of the Commander's words, not even to fully realize the unthinkable way of representing the concepts on his part - _unthinkable for Commander Tucker_. So logically, so coldly, so expressly contrivedly also, in order to bring the listener exactly where he wanted this listener to go. Just... just à la T'Pol!

Phlox wondered if and how the Chief Engineer was aware of this.

The Commander broke into the stunned mind of the doctor with a short question, which completed his last sentence. - "Don't you?" - And, for some reason, Phlox felt deeply uncomfortable in hearing this question, apparently so innocent. But, in reality, the question was far from innocent, as well as the tone in which it was made and the expression of the Commander that accompanied it. And the next question - indeed anything but innocent; this was absolutely evident, this time - clearly showed what the Engineer meant. And the discomfort of Phlox grew mightily.

"Sure, you're a doctor too smart and experienced to think that you may be mistaken. Never. Not even about T'Pol. That's absolutely true, isn't it, Phlox?"

The commander threw a strange look to the doctor. He was perfectly fine, now, apparently, completely firm in the legs and voice. His brain was totally polished, it could be observed.

He knew what he meant and where he was getting at.

Phlox realized it perfectly well. His tone, certainly not exactly friendly, and the fact that he repeated with very expressive eyes that _"__**Isn't it, Phlox? **_" left no room for doubt.

This time the doctor felt a little annoyed. For the Great Healer! But how dared Commander Tucker? What was that tone, those veiled allusions? Then the reasonableness and intelligence of Phlox, his long professional and personal habit, prevailed. It was clear that the Engineer had no intention to yield to the insistence of Phlox about being scanned more attentively, and, in all honesty, his reasons were far from devoid of logic. Certainly ... Phlox almost smiled to himself - ... certainly T'Pol would have been proud of him. But it was also clear, and much more, why the Commander didn't want to be examined, at least not now: there was something else in his mind, at this moment. _**Someone**_ else. There was T'Pol.

Yeah. T'Pol. Here we are again. It was for her that the Commander had come to Phlox, and he didn't seem at all willing to give up the bone. Indeed. And, to be entirely honest - Phlox had to admit - it was a bone damn important, regardless of the reasons more or less personal that could push the Commander to be so persistent. If Commander Tucker was necessary and practically irreplaceable in these times, T'Pol was hardly less so.

The thoughts that had stuffed, unwelcome, Phlox's mind, those about the remarkable ability of addicts to fool themselves and those who care for them about their real intentions with regard to their damnation - the drug - came back strongly to him, accompanied by an equally strong sense of guilt. Eh sure, because, well thinking of it, he had acted with great lightness. T'Pol, as much as she could be T'Pol - _the logical T'Pol, the sure T'Pol, the Vulcan T'Pol _- had shown the ability to make the same mistakes Humans and not only Humans do, actually to fall in the same errors in which the members of any race fell, fall and will fall. Always, because the flesh is weak and the mind is fallacious, no matter how strongly it can be forged: the error is part of being a member of any race, because the error is what allows us to grow, if we know the right way to use what our mistakes can teach us. T'Pol herself had said that this is an incontrovertible truth also for the Vulcans. Right, sure. But the peculiar error T'Pol had fallen into, in this peculiar case, the fact that she hadn't said anything to him just until the pressure of events had forced her to do it, her evident determination to keep everything hidden... well, this meant that her reliability was not all that… _reliable_.

All perfectly understandable, considering that ... yes, the shame of what she had done must have been even more shameful for her, for the Vulcan woman she was. It must have been tremendous, for her: forced by her same logic to behave against logic. But he had not focused too much on all this; he, calmly and trivially, had trusted T'Pol, her well-known fortitude, her reasonableness... and his own skills as a doctor. Some medicine, well-chosen ... the strength of will and the rationality - _the logic_ - of T'Pol ... and the game was done.

Yeah. But was it really so? Hadn't he been, by chance, a little too hasty and superficial, a little too confident and sure of himself, by doing this?

And if he had been wrong? This would be serious per se and for T'Pol. But, even worse, it would be even more grievous in the light of what T'Pol was for the ship, the Captain, for the whole crew.

For the success of their mission.

And...well... most likely for the Engineer, in a very peculiar way.

Had he been mistaken? Should he have behaved otherwise? But what should he have done? Give T'Pol in disgrace to the Captain and to her shame? And to what end? Maybe ... yes ... perhaps he should have sought help from someone else. Someone who thinks with heart, besides with mind.

Like Commander Tucker.

And so, here we are again back to him, to Commander Tucker. In one manner or in the other, everything seemed to revolve around him, and, to quite thinking of this, in reality it had always been so. The Captain was important, was the leader. T'Pol was important, it was impossible to do without her. He himself, the doctor, was important; and, indeed, in the light of the last events, he was promising himself, when and if this crazy mission would be ended and would be ended well, to recommend to the big fishes of Starfleet, to talk in the Commander's colourful idioms, to provide the astral vessels with at least two doctors: what would have happened to T'Pol, as to any other 'irreplaceable' member of the crew, if he came to be lacking? And, to complete the list, what about Lieutenant Reed, and Ensign Sato, and Mayweather, the helmsman? And the others? In reality any crewmember was important, to tell the truth, but there was someone who, for many, many reasons, was more important than the others, _really irreplaceable_. In a certain way, even more irreplaceable than the Captain, because, if necessary, T'Pol could replace the Captain very, very well (if she was healthy, of course. Yeah.) And. .. yes ... even this someone else, _truly irreplaceable_, could do it. He, too, very, very well.

Commander Tucker. It was him. That was the truth. To such an extent that he, Phlox, had created Sim, _a new life_, with the only purpose to heal him, the Commander, knowing that Sim would have only a brief and unhappy life, that he was merely flesh for Commander Tucker, and, in the end, condemning Sim to die for Commander Tucker's sake.

The Doctor preferred not to think too deeply about what he had done, but at that moment, just when in front of him there was a man, the Commander, who was clearly thinking not about his own health, but about the health of T'Pol, the Doctor wasn't able to help but think what the Commander should have thought of what he, Phlox, had done. Of what _the Captain had done_, and, in a certain sense, also T'Pol.

But the fact - yes, that was really the truth - the fact was that the Commander was not only the Wizard of Engines, the one who in his hands had the life of all of them, the hope that they might succeed in their mission, the life - ultimately - of the whole human race.

The fact was that he was irreplaceable for what he was: the beating motor of the vessel; the friend and confidant of everyone, albeit in different ways depending on the case, as it must be; the one on whom everyone knew that they can count on; weak and strong at the same time, as every man is, but always capable of turning his weakness into strength for himself and for the others. And if he, Phlox, had pushed T'Pol to try to cure the insomnia and depression in which the Commander had fallen after the death, the terrible death, of his sister, it was also down to this: he could not allow that such a human heritage, unique and… _irreplaceable_, was lost in a blind and disruptive depression, seasoned with self-destructive rage and dangerous desire of revenge.

And. .. and if, in doing so, it also happened that T'Pol ... yeah, well ... that she noticed _unequivocally_ what the Commander was... _for her_... Well so be it. Good health for both, right?

Yeah, just so. But now this man, this man sincere and honest with everyone, to the point of being naive, almost a possible prey for those who wish to take advantage of him... this man was asking him, Phlox, albeit in the brusque and unceremonious way that was his own (and, most likely, this time also for different and extremely valid reasons), to be sincere and honest in his turn; with him, with the one who, ultimately, had evidently developed for T'Pol a feeling – very deep and important – in some way also in reason of what he had done. He, _the good and smart doctor_, as everyone thought of him.

The doctor sighed secretly to himself. Sure, it was true: all on the ship were indebted to Commander Tucker. All. Starting with the Captain and ending with T'Pol, and perhaps - who knows - T'Pol more than anyone else. Sure, sure. But he, the good and smart doctor, was more than indebted to the Engineer, because, at heart, he, even if in good faith and for reasons that had seemed right to him, had unduly played with the life and with the sentiments of the Commander: when he had created Sim and when he had literally thrown the Commander into the arms of T'Pol.

*_Okay, my dear good and smart Phlox, let's see you act wisely and intelligently, this time. Really, this time._*

Phlox had made his decision, now, after all the 'striving' of his brain on his part. Different and profound had been the reflections he had made, but his brain had worked quickly, very quickly. Nobody, that is not a doctor, knows how quickly the brain of a physician must work at times, watching and pondering things from multiple points of view in the very short time that the anxious expectation of the patients grants him.

Howsoever, be that as it may, now the decision was made.

But before making missteps, he wanted to be absolutely sure.

* * *

She could not.

She had cheated Phlox, had betrayed his trust.

She couldn't add shame to shame, she didn't feel like doing it.

Of course, Phlox would help her, maybe would also be able to make her desist from her vice.

But at what cost?

Almost certainly, he would interdict her from her duty, and. .. and would not be so tender and sympathetic with her, this time. No longer, after the manner unworthy and unreliable, in which she had behaved with him.

He would not lie to the Captain, for her beautiful face, he would tell ... would tell him everything.

And the Captain would be disgusted with her, would not understand; he was a man ... was a man not easy to be sympathetic.

And then, why would he be? She had never been really sympathetic with Humans, at least in the way they would have liked; she was a Vulcan.

Sure, a Vulcan, who was supposed to help the Humans in their weakness, and who had proved to be weaker than them, and the more guilty because she had received mental training that they hadn't had.

Archer could really say that Vulcans, Vulcans like her, were not commendable and reliable people, as, at heart, he had always thought.

She, just she, had told the Captain that he - they, all of them of _Enterprise_ - couldn't do without her, that they had absolutely needed her, in their mission, and then she had…

She had...

No, she could not contact Phlox, could not go to him, could not face such a shame, could not run the risk that the Captain was informed, that he - disgusted, and acting as a Captain should do - could inform also other people, at least the High Command of Starfleet, and... and also the high levels of the Vulcan High Command, her ... her own people! And in any case, even if he had wanted to spare her the shame that everyone on the ship may come to know about her, of what she had done, and, in addition, just in the moment of greatest need, it wouldn't be possible to hide the truth. The rumours would be racing, the ship was not large, Humans are unable to keep secrets, everyone would know.

Reed, Sato, Mayweather, the whole crew.

And Trip!

T'Pol closed her eyes. If she had kept them open, she wouldn't be able to stop herself from crying.

Trip. What would he think of her, her Trip? If he became aware in that way, through Phlox or the Captain or through mere rumours, of what she had done? Of what she had become? He would feel betrayed twice, because she hadn't trusted him and because she had lied about why she had left him.

No, he would feel betrayed more than just twice!

He would feel his soul torn in pieces, because... because she had lied to him about everything! He would know that! He might even think, and… and quite rightly on his part, that ... that she had loved him under the influence of the drug. Only for this! And how could she convince him that it was not so? Why would he have to believe a liar like her?

He would despise her, or, worse, he would pity her, or, worse, he would hate her!

She would have his hatred in the place of his love!

No!

*_No!_*

She could not go to Phlox! She could not ask for - so, again, at this point - the help of Phlox, with all the consequences that this could draw in tow.

And... and if she'd asked for the help of Trip?

T'Pol almost tottered under the puissance of this sudden thought.

However ... yes, yes, it was true ... she had brutally cast him out, but he had sensed that there was something underneath, and had swallowed his pride, offering his help. And she had refused, this evening, it was true ... But ... but he was all-understanding, he was loyal, he was able to comprehend, to forgive ... maybe it wasn't too late, maybe she could run after him, she could ...

T'Pol stiffened, stopping the whirlwind of absurd thoughts that crowded her mind.

She covered her face with her hands.

But what was she thinking? **What was she thinking!**

As if it were possible to go back, as if it were possible to erase everything, as if everything that had driven her to reject Trip, all she had thought up and considered until the spasm, until the yearning, all this were no longer true, were irrelevant, devoid of any meaning.

No, she was alone, alone with herself, with her anxiety, her fear.

Alone, with her drug.

Just so. Her… her drug.

T'Pol discovered her face and slowly lowered her arms. She opened her eyes, without seeing, without looking... just thinking… just thinking that if Phlox had comprehended her and had helped her... and even if Trip, too, had been able to understand her and forgive her and help her...

If all this had happened... she… she…

T'Pol was not even able to understand how it was possible she could have such thoughts, not even capable of asking herself such a question.

But she had such thoughts. SHE HAD THEM, MAY SURAK PROTECT HER!

_If… if all this had happened she could no longer have the drug! Could not longer use it! Could no longer!_

And she could not do without it. She did not want! She must have it!

And...

T'Pol looked down on the floor, at the syringe, now virtually empty. She then looked through the doorway of the bathroom, at the floor of her room, where it lay the drawer that she had hurled in her frenzy.

Empty, like the syringe.

The Trellium was over, there was not any more. She had run out of her stock.

It was not possible! She had to have it! There, ready! Just in case. For all the times she had needed it.

She had ... she had to replenish her stockpile, she must go take it.

She had already done it once, could do it again, and the risk ... never mind. What mattered was having the Trellium. And she had to get it now, right now, immediately. Before something could happen, something that may prevent her from doing it.

Any other thought vanished.

By now it was so. In her mind it had created a space - large - where there was only one thought, and - at times like that - this thought became her one and only thought.

Thus the drug does.

T'Pol rushed out of the room, oblivious of the syringe left on the bathroom floor, of its door left wide open, of the drawer lying on the floor of the room in disorder.

She darted down the corridor, while the door closed itself behind her.

The soft sound of her rapid and muffled footsteps got lost in the silence of the deserted corridor.

They were carrying her swiftly towards her destination.

* * *

_**End of Chapter Three**_

_**TBC**_

_Oh ... A__h ... oh ... please do not skin me, my friends! I did warn you: we have passed the gates of hell, we are in the darkness that lies beyond them, into the deepest darkness. We are in the midst of the deceptions by which hell may darken our minds, whether we are Humans, Vulcans or whatever you want!_

_But.__.. did you read carefully, my friends? (Please tell me that you did!). Doesn't it seem to you that, in the darkness, a light - dim and tremendously tenuous - may shine for T'Pol?_

_What do you think? Will she be able to see this light? Or at least, even if she won't, will this light be able to illuminate her path? Make her see the steep obstacles that are strewn all along her walk? Make sure that she can avoid them? Maybe – who knows - make her go backwards, in the opposite direction, through the road that led her to hell ? Up to see again the stars?_

_May it exist for T'Pol someone able to enlighten her road, someone able to be for her - for the V__ulcan she's - someone like a…?_

_Well, my friends, forgive me, but you must read the next chapter (and its title), to know what this someone is like, assuming, of course, that this someone may exist._

_What do you think? Does he exist?_


	4. Guardian Angel

**Similitudes**

**By Asso**

**Chapter Four – Guardian Angel**

* * *

_**A/N.**_

_**1) **__Okay, __my __friends. __Let's __go __ahead, __if __you __like._

_Let's see, what has happened so far? Ah yes. T'Pol has walked her way to her personal hell on earth, has opened the gates of darkness, falling prey of the deceptions of hell. _

_Gosh, guys! Looks like she's in trouble! Undoubtedly._

_Though. Though. _

_Well, there seems to be a certain Chief Engineer (a certain Trip, you know him, by chance?) who noticed something. What this something is, not even he is able to explain. But this something is so strong and powerful that it motivated him to run to Phlox as if the devil was at his heels._

_And while he was talking to Phlox, something happened ... something ... _

_Well, but enough now, right? You (tell me yes, please!) should have already read the previous chapters, so it is stupid and useless of me to summarize them completely. It is sufficient to say that Phlox, at this point, took a certain decision. However, he does not want to commit any faux pas._

_And __the __title __of __the __chapter? __What __the __devil__… __oh__...__ahem__...__maybe __it __would __be __better __to __say: __What __the __**angel **__does __it __mean?_

_Hey, guys! Do you want to read this chapter or not?_

_**2) **__Where a__re __we?_

_In E2__, __my __friends, __still__in__E2. __I __speak __of __the __episode, __of __course. __The __real __place__... __well__... __still __**here **__and __**there **__simultaneously. __But __I __swear, __my__friends, __I __swear: __in __the __next __chapter __the __mystery __will __finally __be__unravelled. __Yes, __I __swear!_

_Just __one __last __thing. __Thanks, __**Linda**__. __Thank __you __endlessly, __my __dearest __friend, __my __wonderful __Beta._

* * *

**Chapter Four – Guardian Angel**

Phlox pointed his cunningly smiling eyes on Commander Tucker's face: he saw, upon it, wait and concern, mixed with something that seemed a not dissimulated air of challenge. That one, _right__that__one_, it was _**the**_ Commander Tucker, no doubt.

"Very well, Commander. I can't say that your arguments don't have some logical reasonableness, although I could bring one hundred thousand other considerations, equally and more logical and reasonable, to induce you to undergo a thorough and complete medical examination."

The doctor stopped with a motion of his hand the protest that he already saw born on the face of the Engineer. "However, Mr. Tucker, I don't think that this is the time to insist."

No, it was not. The implications of what the doctor had seen happen to the Commander, together with the concerns that had arisen in his mind about T'Pol, and precisely because of what had happened and because of the reasons that seemed to have compelled the engineer to come to him, deserved a long and detailed weighting. This was not the time to get lost in useless things, or try to overcome the well-known obstinacy of the Commander - second perhaps only to that of T'Pol - by virtue of his authority. It would just be wasted time.

"Commander" - The doctor continued in a stern voice, as the smile disappeared from his eyes – "Why do you think T'Pol is not well?"

The engineer reacted, piqued. "Phlox, do not think to confuse me. It's you who has said that T'Pol has something."

"True, Commander, I don't deny it. But you came here, to me, already thinking that she is not well and you want me to tell you if you are right."

"Doctor…"

"Commander, tell me." - Now the doctor was allegedly seriously. His eyes stared at the engineer attentively. – "Why do you think that? What..." - very attentively, very seriously. – "... what have you seen in T'Pol that this impression was be born in you?"

"It's more than an impression!", the Commander almost shouted in response.

Then he calmed down, or at least tried to do so. Striving visibly, he attempted to put order in his thoughts and his words. It was needed to be clear, with Phlox. And quiet.

"Phlox, I have thought long and hard. I also thought I was deceiving myself. I ... I knew ... I know ... that T'Pol... that T'Pol has something inside, a weight."

"You know that T'Pol has a weight inside?"

"Y...yes."

"Ah. I see."

"I... I hoped... no... I wanted...no..."

"Commander?"

"Oh in short! In the end I thought she needed help. So… Well, you know, she helped me, in a way...in a way..."

"In a way?"

"Uh, mh, doesn't matter. Matter is that I wanted to return her the favour."

"Ah, I understand."

"I went to her, tonight, in her quarters."

"Neuropressure?"

"Yes. No. Yes. Oh damn, doctor! Do you want to let me speak?"

"Sure, sure, Commander, I apologize."

Commander Tucker became deadly serious, almost grim, his voice was sombre. Phlox had never seen him so, not even after the death of his beloved little sister, Lizzie, as he called her.

"Doctor, you should have seen her! Grey, tired, even emaciated! With dull eyes, circled. Even her voice was weak and tired! And she told me she was fine! That she was well!" - The engineer's voice rose in pitch, became angry. – "She was well, damn stubborn woman! She did not need any help!"

The doctor tried to reassure the Commander, and maybe even a little himself. "Come on, Commander, don't you think you're exaggerating? Wouldn't she have had to show some sign, also before?"

"And you believe that she didn't have it, doctor? She had it, Phlox, she had it! I realized it perfectly!"

"You?"

"Yes, I! Because I ... "

"Because you?"

Commander Tucker opened his mouth to reply, then, suddenly, he closed it. Phlox could swear that he had become a little red-faced. The concern and the heat of the moment, most likely; or, even more likely...

Mh, yes. The more he thought, the more Phlox became convinced that he had seen well. And this gave strength to his concerns.

"Never mind, Commander. Forget it. However, you have left T'Pol alive and kicking. I don't think ... "

At that point the engineer goggled his eyes and jumped, as if he had been bitten by a viper.

"Doctor, why do you say that? What the hell do you mean?"

"Oh ah, nothing, Commander, nothing! I just wanted ... "

But the Commander was no longer listening to him and had begun to talk again, he seemed to speak loudly to himself, rather than to the doctor, and his voice had almost a tone of hysteria.

"I have left her alive and kicking, of course. And... and she still is! Yes, sure! And why not? Sick maybe, just maybe .. okay. But then, nothing else. Nothing! The idiot, agitated and restless, always stupidly over the top, it's me! I let myself get fearful! And agitated! As usual. Maybe I'm really exaggerating, I may have amplified what I saw in her tonight because of what had previously passed through my mind. Nevertheless... certainly she was looking bad! And... and if... she... while I ... while we..."

"Commander!" Phlox stopped energetically the senseless blathering of the Commander. "Stop it!"

The engineer stopped his babble suddenly, closed his mouth abruptly, turning a pair of bewildered eyes on the doctor. Finally seemed to have understood. He looked uneasy at Phlox.

The doctor cleared his voice. Okay, it was time. After all, the clues were really so many now, he had already caused too much fear, in the Commander. He owed him an explanation, albeit not exhaustive. And then, he had to know. It was necessary, for T'Pol. And maybe... perhaps also for Commander Tucker.

He tried to speak with quiet confidence. "Commander, the malaise that struck you a moment ago..."

"Phlox! Enough! Haven't I been clear? Let's talk about T'Pol!"

"Just precisely, Commander. The malaise..."

"Phlox!"

"Commander! Listen to me, by golly! When you came here, you were well, huh?"

"But yes, of course. I was restless and full of fear for T'Pol, but..."

"How did you feel when you felt bad?"

"Phlox, I said..."

"Answer me!"

The engineer stopped suddenly and looked astonished at the doctor. But what the hell happened to Phlox? He had never seen him lose his temper. Almost without thinking, he began to respond, trying to gather his memories.

"Well, let's see. I started to feel something inside, I do not know what."

"Yes?"

"That something has grown rather quickly. I do not know... a sense of discomfort, a malaise..."

"Yes. And Then?"

"Then, I do not know. I've felt ... I felt ... an anxiety, a ... a desire ..."

"A desire?"

"Yes. A languor. A need, a necessity. Strong imperative. It was ... was ..."

"How, Commander?"

"It was disruptive. It turned into physical pain. I gasped for air, I could not speak. My stomach was burning, all my muscles ached, I felt my heart pound like a hammer, my temples throb... I almost was no longer able to see... I was losing consciousness, I was falling ..."

"And then? And then, Commander?"

The commander looked at Phlox with strange and puzzled eyes, as if only now realizing all the strangeness of what had happened to him.

"Then I do not know, doctor. Suddenly everything was finished. It was as... as ... "

"As, Mister Tucker?"

"As if something came into me, spread inside me, through my whole body. Something warm, powerful ... something... relaxant. Everything has gone by, and..."

Phlox was silent, no longer interacting. He expected the Commander to express what now he almost knew - and feared - that he could say.

"I felt good, doctor. Shaken, certainly, and still terribly concerned about T'Pol. But I was fine. Indeed, to be honest, I felt a force within, a vigour... never felt before."

Phlox took a deep breath. So, it was this way. Okay. Now ...

"Doctor..."

The doctor shook at the Commander's voice. "Yes, Mr. Tucker?"

The Commander spoke almost timidly.

"Doctor, some... some of that sensation, of that ... of that need, of that yearning, is back. It is no longer so strong, but ... well ... not even weak. But I'm fine, physically. I do not feel anything, it's ... I do not know ... is ... Phlox, I do not know what it is!"

The doctor remained silent, his eyes fixed on the puzzled face of Commander Tucker, while his brain worked and worked and worked. At a dizzying speed. And in a direction entirely unwelcome, where Phlox really did not want to go.

Once again it was the voice of the Commander that shook him. It was uncertain, low.

"Doctor... after all... maybe ... I mean… maybe it's best I agree to submit to that visit, isn't it?"

Phlox looked straight at the engineer's face, struggling a little to internalize what he had said, as he was so intent to follow the course of his thoughts.

"Doctor?"

Phlox frowned, pursed his lips, raised his index finger to face Trip.

"No."

Trip's eyes widened, as he looked at the doctor blankly.

"No?"

"No!"

"But... "

Phlox suddenly shot to the door of sickbay.

He turned a moment towards the engineer.

"Come with me."

Then rushed out without waiting for Trip.

* * *

She still needed the spacesuit; things had not much changed, the priorities established by... by Trip were other. E-deck was still decompressed, at least partially, and Cargo Bay two was still very wrecked, for all she knew.

First of all, the spacesuit with its space helmet.

Then, Cargo bay two, trying to act with more cautiousness than the first time.

* * *

They were at T'Pol's door, Phlox just in front of it, and Trip at his shoulders.

Trip could not figure it out. What had come over Phlox? What were they doing there? He had not asked anything of the doctor while they were practically running along the corridors, right after Phlox had virtually ordered him to follow without saying anything else, not even where they were going.

But now...

Evidently after all he wasn't wrong; T'Pol had something, maybe even serious. During the encounter-clash with the Doctor, this one should have noticed something really bad, have realized that there was some... some danger for T'Pol, to the point that he had rushed towards her room and had wanted him to go with him. Why and why just him, he didn't know.

"Doctor..." With much fear in the heart.

The doctor didn't care to respond. He pressed the bell.

Some instants passed. There was no response.

Trip felt his fear grow. Why didn't T'Pol respond? He had left her in her room and there had been no alarms or emergencies. Sure, maybe the Captain could have called her, but it was unlikely that he did it, in these times when the scanty rest available for people was so important for all, if not for damn serious reasons, and, in this case, he, Trip, would have been involved. Or at least it was hoped and desirable that Archer, despite being Archer, did so. On the other hand, why should T'Pol have gone out from her room? For what reason? She wanted always to stay there, macerating in her solitude. So, she should be there. But, then, why she wasn't responding? Was... was she hurt? Had Phlox suspected anything? Has he hurried up here in reason of this suspicion?

Trip felt on hot coals. He grabbed the doctor's shoulder, forcing him to turn around. He spoke with a dry throat. "Phlox!"

The doctor had a strange look, indecipherable. His eyes looked alarmed and penetrating at the same time.

He said a strange thing. "Commander, I do not want to ask if Commander T'Pol is in her room via intercom."

Trip said nothing, asked no questions. It was clear that the doctor knew something he didn't know, but it was also clear that the doctor had decided that somehow he should know. So, any question, afterward.

For now ... "Phlox, move over."

The doctor stepped aside.

Trip dialled the access code to T'Pol's room, feeling the gaze of Phlox fixed on him from behind.

He felt the need to say something, to justify himself. Without turning, while the door opened, he began to stutter, patently ill at ease: "Phlox, I... I... I have her access code be... because..."

The doctor's voice interrupted him. It resounded as intentionally quiet, though patently tense. "Fortunately you have it, Commander."

Trip didn't even fully realize what he had done - showing to Phlox that there was another person in possession of the access code to T'Pol's room besides herself. Didn't even fully realize he had practically been asked by Phlox to open T'Pol's door as if the doctor knew that he, Trip, had the chance.

What he _**didn't**_ see and what he _**saw**_ on entering the room didn't allow him to pay attention to anything else.

What - _whom_ - he didn't see was T'Pol. She was not there.

And, since his mind was in whirling activity, since he feared not to find her, since he knew - had understood - that Phlox in his turn feared, greatly, that something could have happened to T'Pol, he was just trying to convince himself, more or less consciously, that if T'Pol had not been there, there would be one thousand good reasons to explain her absence, that ultimately, despite his previous thoughts, such an event could also be not too worrying.

But what he saw made him think that the absence of T'Pol - just as he feared... _as __he __felt _- it was anything but a good thing. It was a very, very bad thing.

That one was not - could not be - the room of T'Pol.

In the darkness was a stub of candle, and in its dim light could be seen the pillows she used for her meditation, scattered in disarray on the floor.

The closet was open, wide open.

It was missing a drawer; it was on the ground, empty, away from the closet.

Trip walked into the room, Phlox behind him. He walked over to the drawer, leaned down, looked at it, trying to understand.

What had happened? What was it doing there, that empty drawer? An image in his mind: T'Pol was flinging it far away, was hurling it on the ground. Could it be possible? A ... a fit of anger? By T'Pol? No, impossible. Impossible!

Trip stood up, looked around. The bathroom door was open, and even this did not square with T'Pol, with the T'Pol he knew. He looked in the bathroom, beyond the door. There was something on the floor.

He walked to the bathroom, crossed through the door, his gaze fixed on the object on the floor.

An ... automatic syringe.

There was something in his brain ... something ... He could not understand ... a trill ... a whistle ... acute ... it was hurting ... wanted to tell him something ... something ... _what?_

He leaned down again, picked up the syringe, observed it, turned it over in his hands, made the mechanism snapping that allowed the needle to come out.

It was dirty. With what? Blood, obviously. It ... had a greenish reflection.

T'Pol had used it.

She was sick, she was sick! It was true, in the end.

But where was she? What did she have? Where had she gone? Alone, in prey to... in prey to what?

Damn fool of a woman! But why hadn't she confided in him? Why hadn't she wanted to say anything to him? What was there to be ashamed of in being sick?

Trip's eyes widened.

Ashamed? Why had it come to his mind, such a word? It was possible ... it was possible that T'Pol was ashamed? ... Was ashamed ... of what?

People have strange ideas about illnesses. Maybe... maybe Vulcans, being so private and coy as they are...

Or was there something else?

But what?

Where was T'Pol?

Why had Phlox hurried to go to her?

Why hadn't he wanted to ask of her, via intercom? What did he fear? What did he know?

_**What did T'Pol have?**_

Trip turned vehemently. He shouted. "Phlox!"

The doctor had remained in the room, next to the drawer. He was bent over it and was examining it with his portable device.

Trip frowned. _What __the __hell..._

He walked hurriedly to the doctor with the syringe in his hand.

He addressed Phlox almost angrily from behind, from above his shoulders. "Phlox, what the hell are you doing? What ... What ...?"- He made a sweeping gesture, all around. - "What does this mean? What happened?"

He turned his face to the doctor, who had got up and had turned and was looking at him with a sombre frown.

He looked in his turn at the doctor with a frown even more fierce. He hissed. "What is going on, phlox?" - His voice became even sharper. – "What do you know that I do not know?"

Then, realizing the roughness of his tone and of his way, unwarranted even in the anxiety he felt, he tried to soften his manner and make Phlox understand that he could not wait any longer, that he was sick of attitudes mysterious, incomprehensible, evasive and secretive and, as such, even more distressing.

"Phlox, T'Pol has something, that is obvious, and I know - _I __know __it, __Phlox_ - she is hiding something. Something serious, Phlox, distressingly also; perhaps - I do not know - something to be ashamed of. Something that you know and I don't know. But if you brought me here, that's because you think that I should know, even if I do not know why you think so; maybe because you feel that I can be helpful, perhaps because something - I do not know what - is slipping off from your hands, yours and T'Pol's - and you noticed this by talking with me. Frankly I have no idea how things are, but I'm here, Phlox, and I - and you too - have seen the mess that's inside here, and…" - He waved the syringe under the nose of the doctor – "…and this, Phlox, this. So, enough. If you must speak, speak."

His voice dropped in tone, became a little shaky. "And if you think that T'Pol is not here because something is happening to her, and you need my intervention - mine, not of others - say it, Phlox. Say it."

Phlox was speechless. This man would never stop to amaze him, he had understood this for quite a while now, from hand to hand he had learned to know him. But his astonishment at the capacity of discernment, of ... of _divination_, one might say, that Commander Tucker - so impetuous, so rough-and-ready, and nevertheless so keen, so able to come into the substance of things - was able to show in front of the events ... Well, actually it was something that was impossible to get used to.

*_This __man__... __this __man __is __just __the __man __T'Pol __needs_*, he found himself thinking.

Then he recovered immediately. The Commander was right all along the line. But ... oh yes, even in the urgency of the moment, a little caution was needed. He could not ... could not tell him, quietly and all of a sudden: _Commander,__T'Pol __is_ ...

He would surely support and help her, giving T'Pol what evidently, he - Phlox - could not offer her, and just for this and the knowledge that he could not entrust to others the surveillance over the safety of T'Pol - certainly not to the Captain, not to Mr. Reed - he had decided to betray the professional secret. Maybe T'Pol would not be able to forgive him, but there was no other way; this time things were very different than the Pan'Ar syndrome or the little and innocent secret about the 'infectious' Pon Far of T'Pol, and, in any case, her secret would be safe with Commander Tucker, just because of what he was for her - about this Phlox hadn't doubts anymore, even if he didn't know how far things had gone. But it would be neither easy nor pleasant for the Commander, becoming aware, just because of the tie that evidently bound him to T'Pol and that, nevertheless, was the basis itself of T'Pol's chances to come out from the tunnel she had gotten into, about which what Phlox had found in the drawer and the mere syringe's presence spoke volumes.

In any case, he should act cautiously. The Commander could become shocked and even hurt inside, despite his well-known generosity of spirit, despite all he felt for T'Pol.

*_Quiet, __Phlox, __calm. __Speed, __efficiency__... __and __shrewdness._*

He showed his portable instrument to the Commander, pointing at its small monitor. He tried to speak with the voice as quiet as possible. "Commander, I'm sure you are able to recognize what this is."

Trip looked at the small screen. He blinked, frowned, turned his eyes to Phlox. "Phlox, this is ... this is ..." - He turned to the drawer on the floor, then looked back at Phlox, with the bewilderment painted on his face, his hand pointing to the drawer. - "There was ... there was Trellium, in there!"

Phlox nodded and said nothing.

"But... but, Phlox! Trellium is harmful to T'Pol. What the hell was it doing in the drawer of her closet?" - His voice trembled a little. That trill, the trill of alarm in his head, appeared again. Acute. - "What ... what need had she for it, Phlox?"

Phlox still didn't say anything, he simply passed his instrument on the syringe in Trip's hands.

The Commander dropped his eyes and looked again at the small monitor.

He goggled, snapped aloft his head, stared at Phlox with disbelief in his eyes and printed on his face.

He exclaimed, between question and assertion, "She has injected herself with the Trellium!"

Phlox spoke at last. Severely. Sorrowfully, articulating well the words.

"Sometimes things that damage us may also give us something that we enjoy, can give us something we strongly wish, to which, once we had a taste of it, we are no longer able to give up."

The doctor made a brief pause, attentively observing the expression of the Commander. Trip's eyebrows were so furrowed, almost touching each other.

Phlox went on. "And it may happen that, in spite of all the damage that they can do us these things, we become their slaves, unable to fight against our slavery."

There was a noise. Dull and still strident. It was the syringe that was getting crumpling in the grip of the hand of the Commander.

The doctor ignored the noise. He put a hand on the arm of the Commander. He felt it tremble. He spoke again, he played his cards.

"It may happen, Commander, that this slavery becomes a curse which damns us to lie, with ourselves and with others, even if we don't want; which damns us to be damned, to run any risk for continuing to be damned, to the point ..." - Phlox stuck his gaze in that of Trip. – "…to the point of risking our lives, just to have in our hands our… _damnation_."

One moment, one moment only, and then the doctor saw that he had played his cards right.

"She has finished it and needs it." - There was no hesitation in the Commander's voice, nothing left to think of the internal travail that he surely felt. There was awareness and determination, as well as in his gestures and in his expression. - "There is one only place where she can get it, and it is a really dangerous place."

Phlox nodded. Yes, Commander Tucker was really Commander Tucker. "Yes, Commander. She has already done it once and by a hair she hadn't lose her skin." Damn, how contagious was the Commander, with his idioms!

"Then we must act immediately and that's my own care, it's for me." – The Commander looked meaningfully at the doctor – "Certainly it is unthinkable to alert the Captain or Malcolm. They would not understand, or, even if they do, they could not act not according to their roles. T'Pol would be lost, for the others and above all for herself." - Another keen glance – "I instead ... I am me, right Phlox? It must be me."

Tranquillity. Security. Determination. No hesitation. No mention of anything else which might be the reason Phlox had brought him there. Yes, the Commander had understood everything, and he wasn't disappointing the doctor. Not at all. Yes, he it was him, _**the**_ Commander Tucker.

Commander Charles 'Trip' Tucker the Third.

And - Phlox sighed - he would save T'Pol. In all senses. He knew it. He was sure. He should have thought of that before, but before was before, and now was now.

As if reading his thoughts, the Commander spoke outlining a brief overview of the situation and a rapid course of action.

"T'Pol is likely able to take care of herself, but surely it is better to watch over her, because it is credible that her psychic situation can be not perfectly intact at present, despite all her Vulcan control."

The Commander was taking a firm grip on operations.

"This is the current priority, everything else does not matter for now. Neither" - he raised an eyebrow, as T'Pol would do, looking questioningly at the doctor – "what happened to me in sickbay and the reasons because of which you dragged me here after your medical interrogation. And we must act without T'Pol realizing it; it would be terrible for her and counterproductive, even in reason of what we must do next."

His eyes became clouded for a moment. Then he recovered.

"In fact, the next crux will be to ... cure, and heal her from her ... problem."

Again a look of concern. Of sadness. Then, again, a sureness of touch strong and all-out.

"I will help her, and you will help me to help her, we shall see how. Now, come on."

He handed the syringe to the doctor. "Replace this with another similar and empty, putting in it the same needle of this one. Then put it where we found it. She mustn't suspect anything, needs to find the room exactly as she left it."

The Commander moved rapidly to the door and dictated in the interim the final instructions to the doctor. "I go to Cargo Bay two at full speed. You go back to sickbay, because this is certainly not a thing for you, you know. Be prepared for any eventuality."

The doctor could not restrain himself. "And if you have to intervene in Cargo bay two? What will you say to her? How will you justify your presence? And then what will you do? Will you follow her? Will you make yourself seen by her? What ..."

The Commander stopped abruptly and whirled around. He spoke almost angrily, staring hard-eyed at Phlox.

"I will improvise, Phlox."

Then he jumped out of the room.

* * *

Here.

She had it.

She turned the pieces in her hands, staring intently at the substance.

It was powerful, she could feel its effect. It would be ... would be good.

For a moment, she frowned. What was she doing there? What was she doing?

What ... what would Trip think of her?

It almost seemed to her to feel his presence, physically, as if he were there, looking at her; as if he were watching what she was doing, the woman she had become.

Then, her curse was perpetuated.

She had it! It was in her hands! And it was a lot, would serve for long a time.

Now she must go away, must take away her precious cargo, trying to avoid the risks and dangers of the ascent, as she had managed to do during the descent. Her sortie was successful so far, even if she had risked more than once to fall, to go to meet the same mortal danger as before, and indeed this time she had had many more troubles. She was no longer as lucid as before, and even her physical condition was deteriorating, and she knew why, knew that the cause was exactly that for which she was again there, to risk her life just to kill herself slowly. But by now she was condemned, without appeal, without the possibility of salvation, and so she had let herself go down into the darkness and the destruction that enveloped her, slipping, losing often her grip, but always managing to avoid a disastrous fall.

Miraculously, would… would her Trip say, as if someone were observing and watching over her.

As if someone… and it was nice to be able to think this ... as if someone were protecting her without showing himself.

Like a… a…

She sighed, and, with the new and unfamiliar richness of spirit that her acquaintance with Humans - her ... intimate acquaintance with Trip - had given her, she smiled sadly to herself. Yes, it would be very nice to have, to enlighten the darkness of her way, to protect her, one of those Trip had once recounted her about: a Guardian Angel.

Guardian Angels ... a sweet fable. One of many with which Humans childishly and irrationally tried to protect themselves from harsh reality.

The harsh reality. _**Her**_ harsh reality, against which, to protect her, there wasn't any Guardian Angel.

She sighed again, and chased away those illogical thoughts from her mind.

The reality, the harsh reality in which she had gone to chase herself and from which she could not come off anymore, grabbed her again with all its steely sourness. The darkness won its battle against the light. Everything faded away from her brain; everything, except what was in her hands.

Feverishly she stuffed the Trellium in her bag.

She got completely lost in her blind acting, all the rest vanished, nothing else existed. She became totally engrossed in her deeds.

She was too taken by what she was doing, was too intent in that and in the sudden thought that had born in her mind, viz that she might now complete her dose, because too scanty had been what she had injected herself before.

She was too rapt in all that.

Consequently she could not notice - in that mess, in that dark, and even more in the disarray without logic, in the darkness without light in which her mind had by now sunk - the presence of that figure, up there, locked in a space suit, arriving there some time after her.

Who was observing and watching over her.

Without moving.

In silence.

As if wanting to protect her without showing himself.

How he would be... a Guardian Angel.

* * *

**End ****of ****Chapter ****Four**

**TBC**

_That's right: TBC. _

_And __now __what __will __happen?__Well, __my __dear __friends, __I __can __only __give __a __small __suggestion: __what __would __happen __when __a __man __wants __very __strongly __to __do __two __completely __opposite __things? __I __mean, __two __things __- __two __actions __- __which __are __mutually __exclusive, __for __which, __if __you __do __the __one __of __them, __inevitably __you __cannot __do __the __other, __and __vice__versa._

_Well, you say, maybe this man does something totally different from those two things._

_Yes, of course._

_But .. and if he were so ardently desirous of doing both the things that he manages to do both?_

_Hey! Are you crazy, Asso?, I may hear all of you._

_Mh, maybe, I don't deny it._

_But, remember: madmen are often right, sometimes they see things that others don't see._

_And remember another thing: what did Phlox say? I mean about Trip? Ah yes. That all seems to revolve around him._

_Well, __my __dearest __readers. __I __think __not __even __Phlox __knows __how __right __he __is._


	5. Guardian Angels and Angels of War

**Similitudes**

**By Asso**

**Chapter Five**

**The Guardian Angels, must they always remain hidden?**

_**(Doubts and anxieties of an impromptu Guardian Angel)**_

* * *

Here I am again, my friends, or better, here are again Trip and T'Pol (and phlox. Yes, even him).

Do you remember my little, innocent question at the end of the previous chapter? Yes? No? Well, I repeat it to you, here it is:

_What would happen when a man wants very strongly to do two completely opposite things? I mean, two things - two actions - which are mutually exclusive, for which, if you do the one of them, inevitably you cannot do the other, and viceversa._

_Well, you say, maybe this man does something totally different from those two things._

_Yes, of course._

_But ... and if he were so ardently desirous of doing both the things that he manages to do both_?

And remember also what I had said, namely that when Phlox had said that everything revolved around Trip, not even he knew how much he was right?

All right. it's time to prove it.

It is also time to begin to understand what the hell they meant by all those 'here' and 'there' in the first chapter.

Yes, it is time to get to the heart (at least a little).

_And Linda .. ... My wonderful Beta ... A big hug and a deep thank you._

* * *

**Similitudes**

**Chapter Five**

* * *

So it was true.

The murky figure, blurred in the dark, seemed to shrink.

_It was really true._

Now his eyes could see, his mind assimilate.

His heart stop.

Bit by bit.

Like his breath.

She had not noticed him, had not even been able to realize that he was there, and her keen brain, her keen eyes, her ears superiorly keen, her keen ability of observing, of understanding, of focusing on the whole and on everything, even on the most insignificant details that might surround her, were gone.

There, in the shadow which surrounded and occulted her, she revealed herself as being the shadow that, now, she was.

Behind the dark visor of the helmet, the eyes of the dark figure, in high, hidden in the dark, became darker than the dark that was around.

Perhaps ... _it was possible_… even the love she had given him had been nothing more than a dark shadow - and cold and lifeless - sprung from the dark shadow - and cold and lifeless - of her addiction.

No! It was not so! It could not be! It couldn't be not true the passion he had felt in her! The love, yes, love! It was not.. it was not the drug, it was not that!

And then ... and then ... even if it had been the drug... she ... she had chosen him. Him! She hadn't... she hadn't given herself to someone else. To him! She had given herself to him! His. .. his innocent ruse had worked because she wanted him. **(*)** Because of this! Maybe she had needed the drug to .. to ... to feel free from the inhibitions - deep and rigid, he knew - of her culture; he was a human, after all. Who knows how much she must have fought against herself to overcome the steep barrier that separated her from him!

He knew this very well, was aware of how her breed was contemptuous of those that were considered, although this was not clearly stated, inferior races, barbarous, at best immature. Giving herself a Human man must have been for her as throwing herself in the acid, knowing that she would come out from it disfigured forever in the eyes of the people where she was born, that was her people and that, for what she had done, if only they had had the slightest inkling, would have branded her throughout the rest of her life. Unworthy! Unworthy! This she would be for her people, and inevitably also for herself, because you can't erase abruptly and in one shot your convictions, your education, your way of being, experience and beliefs of an entire lifetime; and for that she had needed the drug to accept becoming his, to accept the feeling she felt for him. Yes, of course! Because she felt this feeling for him! She felt! The drug had nothing to do with it. NOTHING! She loved him! **Period!** She loved him! She loved him! SHE ...

He suddenly stopped the flurry of thoughts that followed each other, that piled up, chaotic, in his mind.

But what the hell was he doing? WHAT THE HELL WAS HE THINKING!

There, down there, there was the woman he loved, in the grip of the demon that had taken hold of her, and he thought to himself? He was loosing himself in self-pitying?

But what kind of man was he? What kind of man was he? His father would cut him in small pieces, _**small, small**_, if only he had had the minimal hint that he might have such thoughts. Just at that time. AND AT ANY TIME!

He was there to protect her. TO PROTECT THE WOMAN HE LOVED! Only for this. The rest ... silly things, trifles, rubbish, bullshit! Nonsensical. Useless. Stupid. Unworthy! _**She **_was the one that mattered! Only she! The woman he loved. And his only thought had to be to protect her, to watch over her, by inventing something, _by improvising_, if anything had happened, to arrange that she wouldn't notice his presence, so as not to put her in an embarrassing situation which she couldn't get out of un-destroyed - even more destroyed than she was now - in the mind and soul.

He had to ... he had to act like ... _had to be her guardian angel_. Present, ready, and invisible.

_**He**_ .. what he felt ... had not the faintest importance. NONE!

First of all, and above all, protect her. And save her. From harm. From dangers. From drug. From herself. Without wondering why a woman so ... so immense! ... as her, so pure - _**he knew it. He knew it for sure!**_ - could have yielded to an impulse so stupid, so alien to her. There would be time for questions afterwards.

Or maybe not.

Perhaps there would be no time nor place for any questions. Maybe ... perhaps there would be no longer either time nor… nor place _for him_ in her life.

She had kicked him out of her life because she could not bear the shame that he would come to know. As if there were to be shame of your weakness! As if there were to be shame to show your weaknesses to one who loves you! To one who can help you, for the simple fact that he loves you!

But he was able to understand, he was able to understand what she felt. She had plunged into a fetid cesspool that her Vulcan nature made virtually impossible to tolerate others knowing about, revealing it to all. For her, the shame was double, triple, quadruple, to the nth degree what it would be if she were human. He was even incapable of comprehending how and why she had managed to push herself to tell it to the doctor, unless the events' pressure had forced her to do it; and unless… - _how much… how much consolatory, in some way, was this thought!_ - …unless there had been really between him, Trip, and her, something that made it even more shameful for her say to him what she had done.

So ... maybe ... he could not give her his help ... _tangibly_, by saying very banally to her: "_Honey, I know everything, but who cares? Who cares, my love? I am here, and I will always be here by your side, whatever you do, whatever you say or you want not to say. And you and I, helping each other, together - TOGETHER! - we'll find the way to wipe out your demon."_

Maybe ... a Vulcan like her could never accept such a thing, and maybe ... maybe if he had not revealed that he knew, but had however managed to make her accept his love, giving her his assistance... _on the sly_, with his loving understanding, with his close support, things would have gone the same way, perhaps even worse, because, aside from the fact that their love would have been not quite limpid, she, with that damn ability to understand as a woman and even more as a Vulcan woman, in his eyes, in his face, in his behaviour, might read something.

And she ... she may not bear it.

But who cared? What did it matter that he should banish himself from her life, for her? For her sake? For love of her?

She was his love. His woman. And she would have been his loved woman forever. Regardless of her wanting to admit it or not. Regardless of his close proximity to her.

And for her ... for his woman ... he must do everything. More than everything.

The conceivable and the inconceivable.

At the risk of dying.

In the body.

And in the soul.

She had a longer life, a lot longer than his. She... would have plenty of time to forget him. If they had emerged alive and victorious from their mission, she could find happiness or the devil knew how the Vulcans were calling happiness, without him, with another man, with a Vulcan like her, who would not make feel her… dirty. An outcast, a pariah of her people.

Yes. She could be happy without all the troubles he unavoidably would give her.

_Provided that he had been able to protect her and save her. And to make her again the woman she was._

*_Oh God, God, God! Give me the way! Give me the way! GIVE ME THE WAY! And if You, my God, do not want to listen to me, because I am unworthy, because she is a Vulcan, then you, __**you**__, devils of hell!_

_**My soul for hers!**_*

* * *

What ever was happening?

How much Phlox would have liked to know.

He was sitting at his console, in his infirmary, in... his ship. Yes, this was HIS ship, as of all men and women who on it, for it, with it were fighting and had fought. Were living and had lived.

And had died.

And would die.

Men and women human, that he had learned to understand a little bit and far as he was able; to respect; and even ... yes ... also to love.

The doctor looked at the screen turned off.

_Just as it had happened to T'Pol. And, with all evidence, much more soundly and acutely than it had happened to him._

Incredible, is not it? T'Pol the Vulcan. The stiff, steely Vulcan, all of one piece.

But she had fallen prey to something that she could not even suspect existed.

She had fallen in love.

The recent events had opened the eyes of Phlox. He had not wanted, it wouldn't have been appropriate, to deepen discussion with T'Pol, on the reasons that were behind her unexpected weakness, her unheard-of lightness, but he had not been able to refrain from letting her know - _not very delicately, stupid man!_ - that the cause had been her yearning - _Yearning? Who knows how it had jumped to that term in his mind? However, it was perfectly suitable_ - ... her yearning for Commander Tucker.

Yeah. But the issue was that he had underestimated the problem. It was not just a simple infatuation, after all perfectly understandable in the young heart of a young woman, as far as she was a Vulcan, and, lest we forget, a Vulcan rather intolerant of the strict rules of her people and her education. It was evidently a more complex problem and, on the other hand, if a Vulcan - beautiful, capable, intelligent, maybe ... yeah ... maybe slightly too impetuous for her race's standards - had done what T'Pol had ... well, it was patently an _extremely_ complex problem.

And what is there more complex than love?

Now, if a feeling of this kind is complex for any man and any woman of any race, just imagine how it can be tricky - practically not manageable, indeed - for a young Vulcan, lacking any means, any experience, any knowledge, any tool for being able to deal with it; a young Vulcan, what's more, alone, secluded from any contact with any member of her race, embarked on an unprecedented mission, isolated in a place as the Expanse; and attracted - with her wonder and without being able either to understand nor to control such an awkward, baffling and, for her, inevitably shaming event - to a human man.

So what? Well... maybe... with a small, unexpected, welcome aid...

_The drug._

Yes, Phlox had seen from the beginning that T'Pol diverged from the stereotype of the normal Vulcans. She was different. Better? Worse? Better. There was no doubt, at least in his opinion. She wanted to explore, know, understand, in short do and feel what constitutes the propelling force for progress, for better and for worse; that had made great her breed and that this breed now seemed to have forgotten, now stagnating in the quiet and motionless limbo of a golden but sterile - _mediocre_ - restfulness. It was as if in T'Pol it was reliving the wild and adventurous spirit that had led the Vulcans on the verge of breakdown, but which was what had brought them into the depths - unknown, dangerous but captivating and full of unexpected treasures, of knowledges nowhere else available - of space, until to become the most advanced breed, the dominant, of that section of cosmos, and that now, under the impulse of their logic - flawless, but inevitably reining every thrust upward as well as downward - in them no longer existed. But which existed in the Humans instead. And this ... yes, perhaps this could explain really a lot, both about Humans and their formidable even if dangerous thrust outwards, and about T'Pol and her propensity for Humans and ... for Commander Tucker. The most human of Humans.

But all these are dangerous things. They can make you do other things, strange things, unsuspected things. Things that are difficult to comprehend and even more to handle. Like experiencing... nearly playing... without knowing how to do, a love... forbidden.

_And seeking into things forbidden the strength to live a forbidden love._

And..._ - _Phlox frowned, looked down, between guilt and fear, in the bitterness of his current awareness. - _... _those forbidden things ... _T'Pol's addiction_ ... a little… _perhaps a lot_… it was his fault.

The inclination T'Pol had for Humans, and for one Human in particular, was something that Phlox had noticed since the first interactions she had had with the Commander and it was a thing that very highly intrigued him. So - the doctor couldn't repress his sense of guilt, which, on the other hand, was the least he could feel - he had thought it wasn't wrong pushing her a little in the direction that, after all - he knew it - she wanted deeply.

The neuropressure sessions. Yeah. The means he had resorted to in order to give fuel to the fire smoldering under the ashes, a fire, moreover, that he did not think at all that it was ready to flare only in T'Pol. Far from it. The attraction the Commander felt for T'Pol was equally evident. So... well, treat the Commander's reactive insomnia, extremely dangerous for him and for the mission, and simultaneously help a little those two souls in pain to soothe their pain.

What better opportunity?

And he had been successful! Gee, how much he had been successful! Beyond all expectations. Or, possibly it was the case to say, beyond even the most dire predictions.

On the other hand, he ... he hadn't acted by mere desire to test his skills, or to satisfy his ... yeah ... his nature of meddler.

All in all, it was part of his duties as a physician to promote the psychological and... ahem ... according to what he had been able to understand, physical satisfaction of those under his care, especially if the health issue was concerning people so essential as the Chief Engineer of the ship and its First Officer.

Sure. It was so.

Yeah. Quite true.

However, at the showdown ...

The doctor thought about his words and his reaction when T'Pol had confessed him her addiction.

She needed help. And he had not understood.

She needed to understand. And he had not been capable of making her understand.

On the contrary not only had he done nothing about it, but in the bargain he had treated her badly and sharply, even if right after he had tried to remedy his harsh conduct. What had he said to her? A little resentful and a little piqued, a little unforbearing and a little impatient, he had limited himself to shooting her in the face, basically, that he thought that what she had done was nothing more than a stupid way to be - she - closest to Commander Tucker.

Of course, he also, Phlox, had his extenuations; stress certainly did not spare even him, and the moment that T'Pol had chosen to reveal to him what she had done had not been the top choice for sure. Damn, he had quite a little to do, in those times, and, double damn!, he was a mere Human... namely, a mere Denobulan, after all!

But he was also a doctor! _**The**_ doctor, the _**only**_ doctor of the ship, triple damn!

He had to understand! He had to! Otherwise, he might as well be a charlatan witch doctor!

But he hadn't understood.

He hadn't understood that T'Pol was really in love. And these are things that a doctor, a doctor who, like him, of necessity had to be for all members of the crew much more than just a dispenser of medicines, should not be overlook. Because love is the engine of everything. Everything depends on it. On love and hate, which is the darkness of love.

Yes, of course, that word - love – doesn't have the same meaning, or rather, doesn't have the same implications for all races that populate the universe, but its profound significance is the same everywhere and for everyone.

Love, the real one, is universal. It can change the way in which it is felt and lived, but it - the love - is always the same. It doesn't change. It makes you happy. And it hurts you. And makes you do the most unexpected, most unusual, most weird, most… _terrible_ things.

As T'Pol had done.

_Because_… the doctor repeated it to himself one more time… _because she was in love._

Now everything was clear, impossible to nourish any doubt. What had happened to the Commander during their conversation said a lot. If Phlox had run like an arrow to T'Pol, it was because in him had been born the strong, very strong suspicion that the malaise of the Commander perhaps might be a reflection of ... well, let's call _malaise_ of T'Pol, and the facts had been proved the doctor right. This meant that between the Human and the Vulcan ... well, yes ... existed… a _link_ had been formed, a Bond, to talk as the Vulcans; and rather deep, in all appearances; a Bond that, for what little he knew, was a distinctive feature, or, rather, that was said, in low voice, to be a distinctive feature of the Vulcans; something that, to believe in this rumour, would unite indissolubly each other a woman and a man who have melted together in body and soul.

A legend? Maybe not, judging by the facts. And perhaps T'Pol had not even known that such a thing had happened, indeed, perhaps T'Pol had not even thought that such a thing were possible, perhaps for her it was in fact nothing more than a legend, precisely, or, if you want, a hearsay, a silly popular false belief, to which neither she nor her civilized compatriots gave the slightest credence.

But there wasn't needed the science of a doctor to realize that the "incident" had happened. So what? Very simply T'Pol was in love. Just so. She had fallen in love with Commander Tucker, and had united herself to him in the ... ahem ... body and. .. yes, even in the soul, as it happens when you fall in love in earnest. And since she was Vulcan and since it was true love, though neither she nor any of her race would ever admit that a feeling like this could take connotations of such kind, the link had been formed, the _Bond -_ so much for the legends.

Yes, of course, it was rather hard to imagine that this Bond could have been formed between her and a Human, but this was what had happened, and, to think well about that, this testified to the depth of the feeling that T'Pol, and evidently also the Commander, felt for one another, whether T'Pol was aware of this or not. Sure, because, as for Mr. Tucker, ... well, the speed with which he had put himself in action to bring his help to T'Pol and, above all, the whole behaviour he had shown, were the most evident proof that he was well aware of what he felt for her.

But it was equally clear and manifest, in the light of all that now appeared evident in the mind of the physician, that the depth of this feeling was equally intense on the part of T'Pol.

It was, in other words, really true love.

Phlox knew this feeling. Different were the ways and means in which it revealed itself in his race, polygamous and sexually less - much less - inhibited than that of T'Pol, and, definitely, even of that of Mr. Tucker. But, even if different, it was still this universal emotion, this feeling, which… - In the mind of the doctor it came, suddenly, some verses, verses of one of the greatest human poets, Dante's verses, that he had read, among many other writings of many human authors, during his long vigils, in his sincere desire to know and understand at best the essence, the soul, of the people with whom he had found himself to interact so deeply, verses that were perfectly suitable to the situation. - _… this feeling, which "moves the sun and the other stars."._ Yeah, exactly so, because for this love, this love _deeply true_, for this unfathomable feeling, a feeling that T'Pol was able neither to fully understand nor to handle, she had tried to move her sun and her stars, had tried to change her firmament.

And had done what she had done.

And he - stupid quack - had found no better than to offer to her his drugs and his closeness.

The mission! The mission, above all! So, give T'Pol what is primarily needed in order to make her able to face her duties!

Imbecile! She needed Commander Tucker, not his halfpenny remedies! And certainly not his useless comprehension, a comprehension, for more, that had come after – _**after!**_ - his initial attitude to say the least dismissive.

She needed to understand that she needed Commander Tucker, that it was a wonderful thing that she was in love with him. Everything she had needed was a little bit of understanding, a tiny, judicious, sympathetic push in the right direction. So much for the silly rules of Starfleet and for any possible idiotic resentment of jealousy on the part of the Captain. That ... that inflated balloon who whenever he had to solve a situation was only able to resort to the Commander and T'Pol.

Rules! What kind of rules could be in the Expanse? There was to wonder how they would found intelligent, these rules, those who had conceived them, if they were in the Expanse.

As it was for all of them, the people playing their lives on _Enterprise_.

As ... - Phlox opened his eyes, fully aware, for the first time and totally for real - ... as it was for Commander Tucker, the only one able to make _Enterprise_ run, and, together with the ship, clearly even T'Pol.

And as for T'Pol. The only one... the only one able to make run the Commander.

It wasn't... wasn't possible that those two did not fall in love with one another.

And safeguarding their love, helping T'Pol by pushing her to accept this love and manage it in the best way, it would have been not only the more fruitful and appropriate way to heal her from her addiction, but also to ensure that their mission had a better chance of success.

But he, Phox, had not understood anything, and had trusted himself to his medical arts and his ... his bloated prosopopoeia. He had played the part of the good doctor, without bothering to deepen the depth of what T'Pol had done and the depth of the why, as a real good doctor should do.

And so, now, they were at this point.

But, thanks to the Supreme Care Provider, fortunately, in the end, a glimmer of reason had shone in his little brain of a country doctor.

And, thanks to the Supreme Care Provider, Commander Tucker existed.

Yeah, Commander Tucker.

What was he doing now?

The doctor had done all the Commander had told him to do and now he could not do anything but stand still to wait. And this was... atrocious. It was awful to stay seated helplessly in waiting.

He had arranged everything for any eventuality, but now, he could only wait, without doing anything. So, inevitably, he could not avoid continuing to mull it over.

But dammit! Why had been he so stupid? He, the doctor on whom everyone thought to - _**and had to**_ - rely?

They, all of them, were on the brink of the abyss, at any moment everything could end up in the worst way, and he, the wise doctor, what had he thought to do? To underrate things. It couldn't, it hadn't to be allowed that within a tragedy another tragedy might burst, especially if, to well see, if he had understood, if he had done things properly, perhaps there wouldn't be, now, another tragedy, a tragedy into a tragedy, a second _dangerous_ tragedy, dangerous for the protagonists as well as for the second fiddlers, as the Commander would say, let alone the whole Terran people.

And... yes... let alone all those people who, losing the Humans, would lose everything that Humans could give to them.

The fire, that fire that he, Phlox, had kindled, had spread, unchecked, and it was literally burning T'Pol, and with her the Commander. Sure, the fire would not even spare him: and, as well as him, all the others would have perished, burned in the fire of a personal tragedy, which, however, in an enclosed space and limited as that of _Enterprise_, in a peculiar situation and, by necessity, inevitably wholly closed into itself as that of _Enterprise_, could not be merely personal.

And then, there are no tragedies simply and solely personal. The places where people work, where they live and where unavoidably they share their intimate sphere with all the others - and the _Enterprise_ was the epitome of such a place - do not know, do not have, can not have tragedies only and merely personal: the tragedy of one is - turns out to be with no escape - the tragedy of all, which was even more true in the dangerous predicaments that they all were living. Yeah, because, to make it that they could get out of the dark storm that enveloped them, it was needed a light to guide them off and, wanting to see well, if there was a light on _Enterprise_, this was represented by the Commander.

Which, now it was blatant, was tantamount to saying by T'Pol.

The Captain? A guide, of course. _**The**_ guide. The real and formal guide. However, a guide isolated, to be honest, closed in itself, enclosed in its authority. Without real authoritativeness. This had now become Captain Archer. He was practically living in what was now his obsession. He had moved away, slowly and inexorably, from his men and from the reality, the lively reality - made up of men and women - of the ship that he commanded. Understandable, of course, but only to a certain point. The loneliness of command ... yes, of course it exists, but woe to simply turn it into solitude, quite simply into isolation, because in this case there is no longer the loneliness of command, there is the isolation of the orders. Only this. There is not the authoritativeness, there is only the authority, which alone is of little use. Indeed, without the support of someone eager to make it that things go along the right path, it is good for nothing.

The Captain... he issued orders, certainly, but perhaps didn't command in the true sense of the term. Commanding, it means something else.

But... well, however, the '_someone eager to make it that things go along the right path _', there was: there was Commander Tucker. Yeah, luckily there was him, Commander Tucker, to whom, even more luckily, T'Pol had been able to restore his true essence, his true way of being. She had been able to give back life to the volcanic dragger and limpid, naive, if you will, but extraordinarily addictive, that the death of his sister had threatened to obliterate. T'Pol - her love, the love that she did not know to have - had performed the miracle and the Commander was back to be the Commander, with all his vital force, his ability to drag people; without the formal authority, but with the actual authoritativeness of a true leader. And, indeed, in him the people of _Enterprise_ recognized a veritable Head. He didn't issue orders as only the Captain could do, at least not to those who weren't directly dependant on him, and yet, to think of it ... after all ... he commanded. And not only his staff.

Yeah. That's right.

Phlox clenched his hands, angry and dejected.

And if now - as a final result and extreme of his underestimation of what had happened, and with even greater regret at the thought that this could ruin in the end what, to all effects, could have been one of his biggest personal merits - … if now that leader had gotten lost once again and forever... all would be lost. Forever.

Why, why, dammit, had he been such an ass to commit such a professional error? He, just he, with all degrees and specializations that he possessed? How could he have allowed the outcome of his deeds, of his acting - good and praiseworthy in and of themselves - to result in tragedy, where in place of this tragedy could have - should have! - been, instead, a wonderful, splendid, marvellous, wondrous - How called Humans this? - very sweet love story with a happy ending?

For the good of T'Pol.

Of Commander Tucker.

For the good of all.

Phlox, shifted uncomfortably in his chair, torn between discomfort and yet… yet also hope. Yes, hope, despite everything. The absurd, always resurging hope, that, according to what Humans were in the habit of saying, never dies.

The Commander, precisely he, had taught him that hope doesn't die not even when everything appears lost, that one must never resign or surrender or give in to discouragement. He had done this by his own words and his own actions; and by the way he had resurged from the ashes of his rancour.

Perhaps… perhaps it was not too late, perhaps there was still time.

Maybe the Commander, just he, just the one who had taught him that hope is always alive and who never - how would he express himself? – would raise a white flag, might manage to make sure that hope didn't die for real.

Everything was now in his hands, in what he would decide to do.

And what would he do? Namely, even without going into details of things - the doctor did not even dare think about what the unpredictable Commander Tucker could have devised, if forced, as he had said, to improvise - what would he do, the Commander, towards T'Pol?

Sure, he would try in every way and with all his strength to protect and safeguard her, now about this Phlox had no doubt.

But the Commander ... yes, he was a wounded man. Deeply wounded. If things had gone well, if he could succeed to protect T'Pol from herself in those moments ... afterwards, he ... what would he do?

A man wounded and under stress like him, both, and primarily, because of T'Pol and because of the whole situation of things that weighted on his shoulders… and a man… enamoured... yes, most likely - _very surely_ - very enamoured, like him, and because of this even more wounded…

Once things had gone in the right way, once he had not been compelled to act under the urgency of the need, the need to make T'Pol unharmed, would this man have lucidity enough to find the most appropriate way to act?

Basically, would he reveal himself to T'Pol? Would he say to her that he knew? Thinking in this way to help her, with his aware closeness? With his conscious comprehension? Or would he try to be close to her without revealing anything? Thinking that this was the best thing to do? For the sake of her dignity of a woman and of a Vulcan?

Both options were valid, both logical and possible.

Phlox thought he knew Commander Tucker well enough now. He was a man resolute and determined. Doubtful, perhaps. Rightly doubtful.

But once he had made a decision ...

What a silence, what a silence all around, damnit!

A silence in which it wasn't possible, while hoping and waiting in a forced inanity that it came the time for a decision on the part of the Commander, to wonder – in uncertainty - what decision he would take.

Yes, it was true; now everything was totally in his hands.

Everything depended on his decisions.

Again.

Phlox, looked again at the white screen. Aware. Once and for all.

*_Again, as always._*

The life and wellbeing of T'Pol depended on the Commander.

The life and wellbeing of the ship depended on the Commander.

The success of the mission depended on him, on his ability to keep the vessel and the people who were in it, alive and well.

Add that T'Pol, - regardless of the importance in itself that she had for the Commander - her life and her wellbeing, were basic for the lives and wellbeing of the ship and the people who were in it and, therefore, for the success of the mission.

As a final result, to weigh on the shoulders of the Commander there were T'Pol, in and of herself, the vessel, the mission. They weighed both by themselves and by the interdependence that united them all.

All on the shoulders of the Commander.

Without him being able to confide in anyone, nor with the captain, nor with Mr. Reed, nor with any other.

Only, for the little that it could be worth, with him, with Phlox.

But Phlox could not be of any help in the decisions of the Commander, because, quite frankly, even if this one had resolved to refer to him for advice, the doctor didn't know what to suggest to him.

The Commander was alone.

And he had to decide what to do.

By himself.

What would he decide?

What would he do?

* * *

*_Enough. Stop. Stop it. She is moving. She turns around. She looks up. Is getting ready to climb. Back. Back! She must not see you! Must not notice you! _*

So, this way.

In the shadows. Hidden in the crevices of the walls of the hallway, piled with debris allowing him to stay concealed.

Just like that.

*_Shut up! Stop! Do not breathe! DO NOT EVEN BREATHE! She mustn't see you. Mustn't realize you are here! _*

Without stopping, though, from keeping his eye on her. Looking at her, watching her, observing her, anxious, in her climbing, with her damn load; ready to intervene, to spring to her aid at the slightest hint that she might fall.

Into his attentive and careful and worried eyes, her hard and difficult ascent. Her struggling, her trudging, her repeated slipping, time and again.

Sighing softly with a heartbreaking relief at seeing her recover each time.

And shuddering every time, just as a guardian angel would do in seeing the false steps of the one who is under his protective wing; making at the same time as to snap forwards, toward her, and, right after, stopping suddenly, at the resuming of control by her.

And finally, the end.

*_There we are, my love, there you are! Just one more effort. Just Like that! Yes, yes! SO!_*

The success.

Her success.

THEIR success.

His momentary relaxation.

She made it.

A thousand times risking of falling.

A thousand times making his heart go up in his throat.

*_In the corridor, now! Swiftly! In the corridor._ *

With muffled step. Fast.

*_Stop now. Against the wall. Thank goodness it's all dark. Too __quiet__, though. Too much. Breathe low, low, man. Indeed, do not breathe. She mustn't hear you. Those damn vulcan keen ears she has! Those… marvellous vulcan pointed ears she has!_ *

Here she was, passing rapidly in front of him, without seeing him, without hearing him.

Without ... - _But what happened to her? What happened to her!_ - ... without sniffing him out.

Small. Petite. So petite! So ... vulnerable.

He followed her with his eyes, as she walked away swiftly along the corridor.

And now?

By now she was out of danger, namely ... out of any immediate physical danger, because, in terms of other dangers, in terms of the danger posed for her by her in herself, she was by no means out of danger.

So what? What should he do?

Well, he had still to follow her, of course, had still to watch over her, at least until she had become totally safe, in the quiet security of her room.

But no, no. He had to let her go, now. Useless, harmful, running the risk she might notice him. Did not have to pull too much the thread. Now his task was another. He had to think about how to protect her from herself, how to pull her out of the tunnel in which she had chased herself, while preserving her honour and dignity, maintaining her image untouched in the eyes of all. She would have sunk in shame, even with all the Vulcan being of her, if anyone, other than him, had had the slightest inkling of what she had done. Unacceptable. INADMISSIBILE! T'Pol... was T'Pol. Only he... only he and... Phlox, by necessity, could know! And he had to keep his knowledge to himself and himself only.

Nonsense! He had to follow her, instead. And if she had done something? That is, she ... now she was a drug addict, was dependent on the Trellium. The addicts are often unable to control themselves, not to yield to their needs, needs that are irrational and compelling. It mattered little that T'Pol was the quintessence of logic; her behaviour proved beyond a shadow of doubt that, in matters of this particular issue, all her logic was gone by the wayside. And the amount of Trellium she had procured was really great. He did not know how she used it like a drug, but in any case she had found a way. And with all that Trellium available! If she, after having injected her drug, had still felt the need to go and get it, running all these risks, it was evidently because she no longer had any of it; however, the fact that she hadn't waited for a moment, perhaps it also meant that the dose had not been enough and that she needed another dose. But the Trellium was really so much now! And if she ... ie ... could there not be a risk of an overdose?

But what on earth was he thinking? To follow her until inside her room unnoticed, after she had put away her space suit and he - still unnoticed - his? And then what? Even admitting that he had succeeded in making this wondrous hocus-pocus, what would he do? Would he spring up before her and tell her... would tell her what?

"_Here, look, T'Pol ... I... You ... I thought that you .. that you could ..."_

She could _what_, by the horns of the devil? What would he tell her? What could he do? No. He had to let her go on her way. For now, his task was finished, he had done everything he could and should do. He had to go to Phlox, instead, and make him aware of the latest developments and make so to be told ... yes, to be told everything he did not know. To help T'Pol. To save her for real. With the aid of Phlox.

His mind was confused. His brain didn't know what to do.

But his body knew.

His feet knew.

They had moved. Cautious and furtive. Had led him to follow her from afar.

He found himself observing her, secretly, from behind the corner, as she slipped stealthily into the room where they stowed the spacesuits.

He saw her come out, in her suit and with her load, and hurry towards her destination, her quarters, for sure.

His mind continued to be confused and to grind conflicting thoughts, in fight with each other.

But his body was not uncertain, it knew what to do.

And decided for him.

The wondrous magic trick had proven to be done, without him having been focused on it; now he was in his uniform, his space suit was resting with the others, along with the one that T'Pol had worn.

Now he was just around the corner of the corridor where it looked out the door of her room.

He peeped his head around the corner. He had done so in a hurry; had time to see her disappear inside.

The door closed behind her.

His feet continued to act on their own will. Now he stood before the door of T'Pol.

What ... what was going on behind there?

_Go away!_

_Get in!_

_Idiot! Go away!_

_Get in! You can do it!_

_And then, what? What do I tell her?_

_Tell her everything._

_No!_

_Why not?_

_She would hate me!_

_She loves you. Do you not think?_

_YES! Y... yes. So, I have to protect her._

_Then enter. Protect her. Tell her you know all._

_No!_

_Why not?_

_I wouldn't protect her in this way. I would destroy her!_

_And if she is doing something harmful to herself?_

_But how do I? HOW DO I?_

_You have some rights, man! Did you forget? She has given herself to you. The first man in her life! It was her, not you!_

_So she trusts me. I can not disappoint her!_

_And you? Did not she disappoint you?_

_She does not ..._

_She does not ... what?_

_She is T'Pol! My woman!_

_Then you have the right to get in._

_But she has never told me she is my woman!_

_She is or is not?_

_SHE IS!_

_And then you shall enter._

_I can not!_

_You can._

_I must not!_

_YOU MUST!_

_And if ..._

_And if she tells you that everything has been just one joke of the Trellium? That's the matter, isn't it, man?_

_IT IS NOT TRUE!_

_And if it were true?_

_It .. it does not count! It is her who counts!_

_Then, you shall enter._

_NO! I go to Phlox!_

_Oh, you go to Phlox._

_Yes._

_Let's hope that nothing happens to her in the meantime._

_What should happen to her?_

_See for yourself._

_I see ... what?_

_Do you not know?_

_If I go inside and she sees me and she is ... is ..._

_Is drugging herself?_

_Yes! Yes! She. .. she ..._

_You have to decide. Do you want help her or not?_

_But .. but there is no need for her to know that I know!_

_No?_

_NO!_

_If you are sure._

_Yes! I am sure!_

_Are you sure?_

_Yes ... No. I… I do not know!_

He did not know.

But his hands knew.

They moved. His fingers moved. They typed the access code.

The door opened. Silent.

He entered. Silent.

The door closed behind him. Silent.

He stepped forward into the darkened room. Silent.

The bathroom door was open.

It was possible to see the mirror in it.

There was an image reflected in the mirror.

It was T'Pol.

She was injecting herself.

* * *

Phlox jumped up.

Now a lot of time had passed. It was morning now. The artificial morning of _Enterprise_.

What had happened?

What was happening?

Why was there no news from the Commander?

What was he doing?

* * *

Something snapped inside Commander Charles Tucker the Third.

* * *

What was he doing... with T'Pol?

* * *

_**HERE.**_

*_Get out, man! Go away, before she stirs off from her state, before she is able to realize that you are here! _*

Before he could jeopardize any possibility!

Rapid. Fast. Back. Out.

He stopped just outside that room of love and pain.

He leaned with his back to the door.

He closed his eyes.

He decided.

Actually he had already decided.

He had to ...

The alarm resounded on the fake morning of _Enterprise_.

The Captain's voice.

"All in their places. Emergency."

* * *

_**THERE.**_

He did not speak, said nothing. Overcame in a flash the space that separated him from T'Pol.

He stopped in front of her.

And looked at her.

She stopped her gesture, suddenly conscious. Aware.

She raised her eyes dumbfounded and bewildered on him.

Her lips parted as to speak without making a sound, as her hand was pulling out the syringe from her flesh as by its own will.

He clenched his eyes.

He decided.

Actually he had already decided.

He had to ...

The alarm resounded on the fake morning of Enterprise.

The Captain's voice.

"All in their places. Emergency."

* * *

_**End of Chapter Five**_

_**TBC**_

_Ah ..._

_So, my friends? Do you begin to understand? Or are there still few clues?_

_Well, we shall see. And please remember: we are in the Expanse._

_The unpredictable, uncontrollable, indescribable Expanse._

_Where they can happen - and in fact they happen - things that can't happen anywhere else._

* * *

**(*) _You must read my "Shore Leave" to be able to understand this._**


	6. How different similar angels must act

**Similitudes**

**By Asso**

**Chapter Six**

**_How a Guardian Angel has to act and how an Angel of War has to act_.**

* * *

_**Author's Notes**_

_The threads get unravelled. Or do they get tangled even more?_

_As usual, my thanks full of gratitude and friendship to my excellent beta, my friend **Linda.**_

* * *

******::::::::::::::::**

**_I beg your pardon, my friends and dearest readers, but I felt indispensably that this chapter had to start with these important and useful lines._**

**_Actually, you must think that this is a special chapter, because, here, something really strange happens, whose signs were already present in the previous chapter._**

**_That ended with two scenes in which, if you remember well, two things have happened at odds with each other: basically our Trip did two things that he could not do contemporaneously, that were mutually exclusive._**

**_I think that after all it is not inappropriate for me to transcribe here these two scenes. They are very short and their rereading may be helpful._**

**_Here's the first:_**

**::::::::::::::::**

*_Get out, man! Go away, before she __stirs out of her present state of mind__, before she is able to realize that you are here!_ *

Before he could jeopardize any possibility!

Rapid. Fast. Back. Out.

He stopped just outside that room of love and pain.

He leaned with his back to the door.

He closed his eyes.

He decided.

Actually he had already decided.

He had to ...

The alarm resounded on the fake morning of Enterprise.

The Captain's voice.

"All in their places. Emergency."

**::::::::::::::::**

**_And here's the second:_**

**::::::::::::::::**

He did not speak, said nothing. Overcame in a flash the space that separated him from T'Pol.

He stepped in front of her.

And looked at her.

She stopped her gesture, suddenly conscious. Aware.

She raised her eyes, dumbfounded and bewildered, to him

Her lips parted as if to speak without making a sound, as her hand was pulling out the syringe from her flesh as by its own will.

He clenched his eyes.

He decided.

Actually he had already decided.

He had to ...

The alarm resounded on the fake morning of Enterprise.

The Captain's voice.

"All in their places. Emergency."

**::::::::::::::::**

******::::::::::::::::**

_So, as it seems clear, in the first of two final scenes Trip decides not to face T'Pol and comes out from her room without being noticed; in the second one, he decides to face T'Pol and reveals himself to her._

_Okay, my friends, you have to think that these two actions of Trip, both of them happen for real!_

_How come? Well, but I have said how come, and also Phlox has said it: everything revolves around Trip and, remember, we are in the Expanse, where everything can happen._

_Anyway, to come finally to the present chapter, in it we will see two different Trips, acting in two different ways, although they are the same Trip. And there will be also two different T'Pols, although they are the same T'Pol._

_Two universes, my friends? Well, clearly, yes. Remember all those "Here" and "There," of the first chapter?_

_But which universes? And how ever, these two universes?_

_I think that things can begin to unravel, with the reading of this chapter._

* * *

**Similitudes - ****Chapter Six**

**_How a Guardian Angel has to act and how an Angel of War has to act_.**

******::::::::::::::::**

_**Scene one - With Trip one (and with a bit of his own T'Pol).**_

How a Guardian Angel has to act.

* * *

Trip's head snapped upward, as he heard the Captain's call.

Hard and laboriously, with mind's great effort, he realized the situation.

Needed to snap, to go. Away from there, to the engine room.

But how? It wasn't easy. No. It was awfully hard. There was T'Pol, behind the door he had closed behind him, in her room.

T'Pol.

And her damnation, that at last he had discovered.

And touched with his hands.

And whose knowledge he had decided he had to keep to himself, without making T'Pol aware that he knew.

Trip reclined his chin on his chest, strangely inert, strangely uncertain.

Strangely deaf, for the first time in his life, to the action's call, of its suddenness, and strangely perceiving, for the first time since he had began to have some sort of coherent thoughts in his head, the duty's call as not highly impellent.

And even less the Captain's call.

And, even more strange, he didn't feel guilty for that.

Was this because he had become aware that nine times out of ten the call of the Captain had no real reason? Actually, with wonder, at first, and then with dismay and disappointment, which, after the Captain had decided to play with life by ordering Phlox to create Sim, had become almost resentment and hostility, Trip had been forced to realize that not a few times his old friend – his Captain - wasn't matching up to the commanding position he held, which had led him to close up more and more in himself, even unconsciously, and in the rancour caused by the death of his sister, turning slowly himself into a man far from the one he had been.

This, in addition to… _a certain other thing_, that had flourished, at first timidly and then more and more lush and bursting out from him, had pushed him even more to seek the only person that - incredible, isn't it? - he felt close to him.

T'Pol. The Vulcan T'Pol. A Vulcan, yes. A cold, distant, annoying Vulcan. And yet, a Vulcan incredibly far less cold and distant and annoying than his so-called old friend, who seemed having lost himself in his stubborn solitude, in the obsession – that was the term – of their mission, much more than how he had lost himself in his anger.

T'Pol. The Vulcan who – she, just she, who never smiled - had been capable of restoring in him the smile; and the serenity. And - wonders never cease - who had ended up becoming the love of his life.

But about that – Trip curled up his lips, in a pitiful attempt to grin – he had been well aware that for him it was merely a matter of time. That he was in love with her, he knew it very well, well before the neuropressure sessions; what he hadn't known, it was the intensity of the love he would feel for her.

What did he want, the Captain? What could be happening that could be more urgent and important than the task he had set himself, when he had seen T'Pol injecting herself, and that was by now the true task of his life?

Why must there always be something more urgent and important than the care of yourself? Or better - which counts much more - of the one you love?

And yet, in spite of how he could be right, Trip knew that, at bottom, he was attempting to fool himself and that surely his T'Pol would disapprove of him, a thought, this one, that aroused in him that feeling of guilt he hadn't felt until that moment.

Nevertheless, it was really – really, really! - awfully hard to promptly respond to duty's call, because there are times when they appear duties we feel more pressing than those that so far we perceived, or believed, as paramount and predominant; because, at certain moments in life, we have to take, and to ponder on, decisions that we feel matter much more than any other thing, and which can not be repulsed into thin air, set aside, for anything.

Decisions that can not and should not be put off, on which there can be no impediment to reflect with immediacy and determination to ensure that the outcome you expect from them is the one wanted and hoped for. Decisions that deserve, in any case, regardless of the circumstances, a break, even a very short break, a very brief moment to brood about them, irrespective of how much the thoughtless and impulsive way of acting can have been the route stubbornly and blindly followed and pursued until now.

As it had been for Trip.

So far.

Damn it! But how much had penetrated, that woman, under his skin? How much had she changed him, even in the short - **short, for the devil!** - time that she had allowed herself to love him and be loved by him?

Where had it finished, his entire world, and the man of impulse and without many doubts, capable of acting not too subtly, without thinking too long. Where had he gone, that man he had been?

Oh, he was still there, for Pete's sake, he still was, even if enveloped into a sort of man with a new skin. You cannot totally forget what and how you were, as much as life can attempt to change you, and, in addition, Trip felt that, in some way, his peculiar way of being, his own typical way of acting, of throwing himself headlong into his tasks, had drawn T'Pol to him.

Trip chuckled bitterly to himself.

Who knows, maybe the saying "opposites attract" had some validity even for the Vulcans, just as for the Humans.

His silent and bitter chuckle died inside him, before it could be turned into something similar to a true laugh.

*_Opposites attract, eh? Just as it happened to me._*

In any case, irrespective of how it could be possible, he had no intention of changing, or, at least, not to the point of being no longer the same man. T'Pol had given herself to _**that**_ man, to the man he had been and still was, for Beelzebub's horns, and even if she had established that she wanted no longer to stay with him, the mere idea to be different from the man who had held T'Pol in his arms was something absolutely impossible to be thought, to be conceived.

And nevertheless… yeah, nevertheless, whether he liked it or not, somehow, he was already changed. He was there, at that time, to reflect and ponder, to try to understand and evaluate, in spite of the urgency of the situation, carefully considering his objectives and attentively and rapidly prioritising his action line.

Exactly how T'Pol would have done.

Trip could not help but smile, amused, to himself, although in those moments, so serious. Who knows if, in his place, T'Pol, instead of reflecting and pondering, even if apace, as he was doing, would have thrown herself headlong into action, like the "himself" that had existed before she had raided into his life?

The smile disappeared from his lips, as quickly as it had appeared.

Damn it! But of course T'Pol would behave as he would have done in other times, or better, that she would yield, at least in part, to the temptation to act in the way that was proper for him!

Trip's mind ran to the sensations, strange, weird, hard to be described, that he had felt during the first night of love between him and T'Pol and on which he had not wanted - never – to ask for an explanation from her, on which he had always purposely avoided to dwell and to reflect.

Then his mind, spinning as it worked, went on to what had happened during his conversation with Phlox. And then on to the behaviour of the doctor, as a result of what happened to him.

What did it mean? Was it possible that between him and T'Pol it had been established ... What? For the hell? What? Sure, she was a Vulcan and maybe this fact…

What did he know - what did the universe know! - of what happens when a Vulcan ...?

Was it possible, by chance, that the changing that inevitably occur in you under the influence of the person you love and who loves you or … or, even simply, – A surge of sadness sprang up, heartbreaking, inside him – who decided, without real love, to share the most intimate of intimacies with you, were for the Vulcans such that ...?

*_But stop, Trip! Stop it! She can also be a Vulcan, but you're a Human! Do not forget it!_*

And yet ...

And yet their relationship, however brief, had been deep, darn deep, even if that stubborn Vulcan female would never admit it.

So ... well, then ... if he was changed, why shouldn't even T'Pol have changed?

This ... well, yes ... this was – how to say? – this was normal ... more normal, in a sense; surely more normal than the idea that between him and T'Pol…

It was ..._ it was logical_, as she would say.

But if things were so, maybe ... maybe ...

For God's sake! Was it by chance, at least in part, his fault, if T'Pol ...?

Trip's eyes widened, while this new "himself", so introspective and thoughtful, so _rapidly _and_ rationally_ introspective and thoughtful, went on his close examination of facts and events. _Rapidly _and_ rationally_.

If he was thinking correctly, this meant that he had to help T'Pol not only because of the love he felt for her, but also because he could have some sort of responsibility for what she had done, without forgetting that love, in itself, is, above all, responsibility.

But then, what was the decision of priority? Was it the decision to do immediately his duty, as much as it could be cloudy, at the call of the Captain, by attending personally to it, or was it the decision he had taken in respect of T'Pol, well knowing, moreover, that he could control the situation from afar, by using the skill and experience of his staff, in general, and of Hess, in particular, who would resort to him if his presence was really needed? And - watch out! - it was not impossible that it was essential to act quickly, _extremely quickly_, with regard to T'Pol. It was not impossible that, for what he was able to sense and understand, the time available to prevent from coming to a deterioration with no return of her physical and mental conditions, could be terribly limited; without forgetting that she was the First Officer, and it was absolutely necessary that she be able to act perfectly lucidly, in compliance with what her rank required. And the idea of being the delator of her difficult situation in reason of a possible, _**only possible**_, flaw on her part in exercising her role ... Well! It was simply impractical. No. More. Repellent.

So what? Should he run to his place or run to Phlox? To implement with immediacy the decision he had taken before his well-timed Captain decided to further complicate his life?

_*Shut up, do not say anything, do not reveal yourself to her, keep it all inside. Look for another way. With the help of the only person who could help you. You and T'Pol. Phlox.*_

Thus, in this way, he had ended up to resolve his internal debate, the one that had crippled him in front of T'Pol's door, before his body, in place of his mind, had decided to bring him to enter. He had decided he had to go to Phlox. Immediately. And arrange something with him to save T'Pol. If ... if he could remain calm enough not to get his hands on the doctor! Damn Denobulan! Damn quack! But why hadn't the doctor turned to him to help, together, T'Pol? Why that stupid doctor ...

Trip shook his head, angry with the world and with himself. And definitely not clear-headed. No. Not at all. And he ... he, dammit!, he couldn't afford it!

Now much less than before.

Before, there was _Enterprise_, and the _Enterprise_'s people. And the mission.

Now ... _more than all people ... more than all things_ ... there was T'Pol.

He broke away from the door, with an effort.

But what the hell was he thinking? What fault had ever the doctor? What the heck he demanded that the physician should have done? It just was much - very, very much - that Phlox had finally made the decision to turn to him to help T'Pol. It must have been a really difficult decision for the Denobulan, because it had forced him to betray ... that was the right word… in a sense, his professional ethic, revealing things to him that a doctor should never reveal.

*_Enough, stupid man! Stop raving, stop having your usual thoughts of a capricious child. Think to act, instead. You ... yes, you know... what to do._*

Oh yeah, he knew. Protect T'Pol. And save her. But without saying anything to her. From afar. Because he could not - MUST NOT! - let her know that he knew.

He would have destroyed her even further doing so. There had to be another way, other than that, so traumatic, to tackle her, face to face, making her face the fact that he knew. That had been his first impulse, but… – eh, sure; Trip nodded thoughtfully to himself - … but for once in his life, he had driven his impulses back deep inside. Had left her room without her noticing anything, not even that he had entered.

He had collected in a moment, ideas and forces. And was still doing this, in spite of the Captain's call. He needed it. He needed it, also to swallow up, to try to digest, to bury deep down, where it might perhaps be less aching, the notion that ... maybe he was nothing for her, really ... really a Lab Rat, useful to satisfy her thirst for knowledge ... for _an insane knowledge_ ... triggered by ...

By the drug.

No love.

No.

Nothing.

Perhaps, probably... _maybe surely_... just an attraction a little more than purely physical.

Only... the drug.

But it was still T'Pol. HIS T'Pol!

And to die for her ... or to live for her and… and without her ... while dying inside ... was the only thing he could do now.

Provided she may live. And be safe. From her demon.

To Phlox. Yes. To Phlox.

Who, it was clear, knew of T'Pol things which ... well, yes ... which together with those that he knew of her, could help them to find together a way, a means, a road which could rescue the body and mind of T'Pol. And her dignity.

All in all, the doctor had eventually ended up setting aside his ethical duties, in order to pull T'Pol out from the mess into which she was plunging herself. The urgency of the situation had prompted Phlox to hush up his doubts and hesitations, even if it mustn't have been an easy thing for him.

So what? What harm would there have been if he, Trip, would let the doctor share with him things... things that only he - _**only he**_ - could have known of T'Pol? Things useful, perhaps, if combined with those who knew Phlox, to repel in the hell from which it had sprung the demon of T'Pol? What harm would there have been in doing this? For her sake? For the sake of the woman he loved?

T'Pol definitely would feel betrayed by him, as well as by the doctor, on the other hand. But there was a difference, a big, very big difference. The doctor ... well, it was the doctor, but he was him. He was Trip. And feeling betrayed by the one who, for you, however that may be, is, in any case, something quite different, _quite more_, than a trusted friend, or an intelligent and clever shrinker...

And just in what for a woman and even more so for a Vulcan woman is something that cannot be publicly displayed, not even to a doctor or to the closest friend of friends, something that pertains to the most intimate sphere…

Indubitably, the doctor would have been sidelined by T'Pol, both as friend and as ally, but he, Trip, would certainly have been thrown into the circle of the infamous villains, he would have lost her, once and for all and forever.

And yet, on reflection, what did that matter? She. .. she was lost for him, in any case. The dream of a moment, and nothing more.

At least, this way, she perhaps would have been safe, and ... yes ... perhaps in the resentment - even unexpressed and suppressed - that she would have fed for him, she would have found sufficient grounds to justify, rationalize, just as a Vulcan must or should do, her separation from him, reasons other than the drug. Deceiving herself in this way, of course; but doesn't it work so, the human brain? And most likely ... indeed surely ... also the Vulcan brain? If not, T'Pol would never have done what she had done.

Trip felt to surface to his lips a sad smile of derision. For himself, for the Humans, for the Vulcans.

Different, the Vulcans, aren't they? Oh yes, very different, so much to make arduous and difficult the relationship with them, _the relationship between him and T'Pol_. But perhaps there is something that makes us all like, under whatever sun you were born.

The frailty.

The creatures that live their brief moment of life are frail. All of them.

And T'Pol ... Incredible, is not it? ... T'Pol was frail, perhaps even more than him, and perhaps made even frailer by his own frailty, by his Humaneness, that she had wanted to savour and that, possibly, was preventing her from winning her war, which, if it was so, couldn't do other than to increase to the highest degree his sense of responsibility toward her, the care he had to have for her.

_Which couldn't do other than to put at the highest rung of the ladder of priorities the fact that he had to defend her from her own frailty._

And to make her feel, again, the strength that she had thought to possess, whose awareness, on the contrary, of not possessing or having lost, certainly, at that moment, made her suffer, and be angry, and perhaps even act like she was doing; but that there was, still, he knew, behind that frailty, a frailty that, in hindsight, made her even more dear and precious to him.

Frail and strong. Strong and frail.

This was T'Pol.

By now he had realized this, and perhaps that was what made her unique. Because T'Pol was unique, she was a unique and precious gem that should be protected and safeguarded and preserved. Oh yes, he wasn't mistaken, because he and he alone, had gotten to know what T'Pol herself not even imagined to posses: _he had touched the splendour that was hidden in her depths. _**(*)**

And Trip remembered well his promise: _one day he would be able to make T'Pol conscious of this splendour._** (*)**

The moment had come, even if... it was certainly not this one, the way he had imagined.

And hoped.

But he ...

He loved her.

He had understood this for a long time. It had been necessary, really a great effort to admit it to himself. It had been necessary an infinite time and a continuous and foolish self-deception, before he recognized that the anger and scorn he had felt when, at the time of their first meeting, she had refused to shake his hand, was nothing but the consequence of the flame of love that had burned him once he had seen her.

_Wonderful, unique, magnificent._

_Darkening all that was around her._

But he had understood, at the end, and... had managed to make it that it were she to reveal herself to him.

With results that had gone beyond his wildest expectations.**(**)**

And not only for the nights and the days of love T'Pol had given to him, no, not only for that. The fact was that if, even before that night, that wonderful first night, he had understood that he loved her... afterward, and after the other marvellous nights, he had understood _how much_ he loved her, for real.

Had understood that he would no longer have loved any other woman, nor could.

She had her drug.

He had his.

And both would have to do without it.

But he could have survived without his drug, without her. It was just a matter of getting used to be the living dead.

A body, deprived of its heart.

Fortunately, Humans have a shorter life than Vulcans, and then ... hopefully after they were lucky enough to finish and accomplish their mission, it was always possible he could happen to have some fortuitous accident, perhaps even deadly, also for a man without heart.

His was a dangerous profession.

She, not. She could not do without the Trellium, it was evident. But the drug would kill her, would… would _**devastate**_ her, or, if not the drug, the contempt for herself that a being as beautiful as her, could not help but feel for herself.

So ... to Phlox.

To find, along with him, the means to enable the mighty force that was hidden in the soul of T'Pol to reveal itself again, to shine outside her, as shone inside her.

Would they be, he and the doctor, able to find together the means to save T'Pol? Trip wished it, wanted it desperately, but it was all he could do, because he knew he had no answers. He was not a doctor, he was just a damn, fucking engineer struggling with things that he did not know, things greater than him. But the doctor was the doctor, for the devil! Maybe he could also have acted with lightness, could have fooled himself, but he was still the best of doctors, knew a lot of things, was full of degrees and specializations. The doctor had to know what to do! He had to know! Otherwise ... otherwise he, Trip, would make him pay dearly! **Very dearly!**

TO PHLOX! NOW! IMMEDIATELY!

**I-M-M-E-D-I-A-T-E-L-Y!**

Yeah. Sure. But the Captain had called.

_- "Emergency. All in their places." -_

Damned Captain! DAMNED ARCHER!

Always well-timed, the dear Jon! Always damn well-timed, no doubt about it!

Damn him! Damn the Xindi! Damn the world! AND DAMN ALSO T'POL!

*_But why ... why, why... WHY! _*

Trip shook himself vigorously. With anger.

No. So, not good.

*_Calm down, man. Calm down. Nobody is to blame. No one conspires against you. You know it. And you also know the reason for this emergency._*

Yes, he knew it.

They were on course to reach the subspace corridor through which they could come to the meeting with Degra, in the time of three days, against the weeks it would take if they had not recourse to that means. Trip knew that they would reach the corridor shortly thereafter, and evidently they had come to it just now: no warning siren had accompanied or followed the Captain's call, which meant that most likely the emergency was due to reaching of their destination.

Now everyone had to be prompt.

So Archer had called. Mh, yes… sure. But, to think about it, could there be something else, in that call, in addition to what Trip thought that there might be? Was it possible that something was not perfectly right? How had been the captain's words? _- "Emergency. All in their places." -_

Trip frowned. *_Emergency, this had been the term._*

This thought shook Trip, almost violently.

What the hell? What was he doing still there? His place was in the Engineering, certainly not there, in that corridor, before T'Pol's door. And although she, just she, T'Pol, was **the real** priority, at that moment the priority was - _had to be_ – another. Not to mention that, to reflect carefully on what he had thought to do, namely to control things from afar, by inventing some excuse for his absence (and, in the chaos that was currently _Enterprise_, he, of excuses, could find in abundance, considering, for full measure, that it was not a mere braggadocio that practically the vessel's whole functioning weighed on his shoulders, which was known by all people), however his absence could end up to raise some questions in his regard, perhaps, above all, from that suspicious individual who had become the Captain, or, even more, from that _constitutionally_ suspicious individual who was Malcolm, let alone the gossip that could be started by Hoshi. And he, Trip, if he really had to provide for T'Pol, in secret, without anyone noticing it, just had to keep the lowest profile possible.

Oh what the heck! Nice to be so thoughtful, sure. But action was needed, also, for the devil! All in all ... yes, all things considered he was still a man of action. Perhaps more careful, okay. Less precipitous, okay. But he was still Charles Trip Tucker the Third. The impulsive man of action whom T'Pol ... whom T'Pol had wanted. Because this was a matter of fact. She had wanted him.

Which, in all the darkness in which his life had been engulfed, was, after all, the only, albeit faint, light capable of illuminating at least a little his lonely way.

Lonely. Yes.

*_Lonely._*

Trip took a deep breath, realizing suddenly that, not only he was lingering in thoughts, to put it mildly, futile at that moment, when he should already be in his place, but also that he was in danger of being surprised by T'Pol, out of her door, when she, recovered from her… hang-over, would come out of her room to go, in her turn, to the place appertaining to her, on the bridge.

He darted a glance at his stopwatch. Oh Well, indeed the time of the mind and the one of the body are different. Luckily all that whirlwind of thoughts that had kept him at the door of T'Pol had taken not more than a few seconds, less ... - Trip could not help but smile with bittersweet sorrow: sweet, just because of the memory; bitter, because it was just a memory, now - ... much less time than what had been necessary to cleanse him and T'Pol, in the shower, together, in their first night of love, when the Captain - Always him, damnit! Always able to intervene at the right time! - had decided to sneak into their lives. Without knowing it, of course. Without any fault. But he had done it! Damn him! Damn all! Damn the world!

Never the possibility to speak, between him and T'Pol. Never a moment of peace, of tranquillity. Never ...

*_Oh, man, again? Will you stop feeling sorry for yourself, or not? Nobody has it with you._*

Even if ... well, to see things from the outside, frankly, a neutral observer might get the impression that the fate - at least a little - was relentlessly against him. And - well yes - even against T'Pol. Against both of them. Certainly, if someone had taken the trouble to do it, he could pull out a bunch of novels, full of angst, from their story. Worse than Romeo and Juliet.

*_Stop. Time to go._*

Trip made as to snap away, toward the elevator.

But something stopped him.

Something ... he did not know, did not understand...

But there were so many things that had happened that night and that he did not understand ... that maybe ... yes, that maybe Phlox had understood...

Like that sensation, now...

He stepped away abruptly. He stood aside and concealed himself behind the corner of the corridor, the same corner from which he had seen T'Pol enter, fast, with her goddamn load, into her room, for ... for her necessities.

And from that corner, this time he saw her come out.

He .. he had felt her coming.

He looked at her again without being noticed, for the umpteenth time in that night without end, at the beginning of a day that would be, it too, without end.

Maybe ... Yes, perhaps he had simply ceded to the unconscious impulse to see her again before she disappeared from his reach, on the bridge.

Perhaps it was so. Maybe he had wanted to understand if she was all right, now, or at least well enough to be able to deal, at least at the sight, that long day.

Yes, maybe things stood this way.

Perhaps that sensation, that ... that perception, that impression that she was about to come out, was merely a reflection of his desire. And of his fear. And of his concern for her.

Nothing more. Nothing else.

Maybe.

Anyway ...

Trip scanned the small alien woman who had stolen his heart and who had locked it up in a pix of lead.

Where it would remain forever.

*_Yes, anyway she__ seems__ to be well__._*

Trip found himself laughing uproariously inside.

Yes, of course. Apparently she was really well. The _hang-over_ was gone. Only its beneficial effects were left.

He watched her disappear into the elevator.

All right. She was fine.

Between a _hang-over_ and the other, she was all right.

The sarcastic grin died in the throat of Trip.

*_Like you, my dear healthy man, aren't you?_ *

Eh sure, he was indeed fine, was he not?

Who felt better than him?

Now he could no longer have any fear, no fatal wound could be inflicted on him, nevermore.

To die, it is necessary that the heart stops beating.

But, how could his heart ever stop beating, confined as it was in that casket of lead?

There was only one person who could unlock his heart and lay it open to a possible death blow: a small, marvellous, unique… _cold, unreachable, self-destroying, damn Vulcan female!_

But she had lost the keys to the chest, getting lost behind the mirage of an aberrant demon.

Of her drug.

And so he would never die.

He would live forever.

A walking dead man.

_Without heart._

Trip darkened, with anger, knowingly, his mind.

He walked briskly to the elevator and pressed the call button.

He entered, in his turn, the elevator.

Inside hovered the alien fragrance of T'Pol's skin.

Of her body.

Of her.

The heart - far away, locked up, imprisoned - of Trip, twitched in a spasm of pain.

* * *

_**Scene two - With Trip two (and with a lot of his own T'Pol).**_

And how has an Angel of War to act.

* * *

The echo of the Captain's call died quickly in the air.

Neither Trip nor T'Pol made the slightest gesture that indicated that they had heard.

They continued to look at one another, into the eyes of each other.

T'Pol had never seen that light, dark, in the eyes of Trip. One might believe that the blue of his eyes had turned black.

In that black, in the shiny dark mirror of his eyes, she seemed to see reflected her own eyes.

Bewildered and dumbfounded.

And scared.

She swallowed hard, motionless, not knowing where to look, what to say, what to do, where to put her hands, her feet, where and how to position her body itself; for the first time in her life, unable to recover through Vulcan skill and coolness.

A myriad of thoughts began to swirl in her mind, as soon as her frozen brain began painfully to work again.

Fear. Pain.

*_He saw me! He saw me!_*

Pain. Shame.

*_He knows! He knows!_*

Shame. Uncertainty.

*_And now? And now? What do I do?_*

Uncertainty. Illusion.

*_But maybe he does not know! He simply thinks I'm sick, that I was injecting myself with a medicine._*

Illusion. Painful certainty.

*_Yes, yes! Maybe he does not know! But no, no, no! It is not true, not true! He knows! He is here because he knows!_*

Humbling awareness. And anger. And fury.

*_Yes, he's here because he knows. His eyes speak volumes! But... But how could he do that! How dared!_*

And then his voice. Rough and tough.

And her awakening

Painful and stinging.

"The Captain called."

T'Pol nodded, able to do nothing more than this.

"We must go."

T'Pol nodded again, incapable of bearing the roughness of his voice.

"After, we will talk."

T'pol lowered her head, in mute assent. Futile, _illogical_, to try to avoid the unavoidable. She could refuse, but _**he**_ knew, in any case. Shame and pain would be her companions, all the times she will hear him, see him, talk with him, perceive his smell, whether she had accepted to speak to him or not.

_Shame and pain would be forever her companions, just as before and even more now, that she knew that Trip knew._

What had she done? _What had she done!_ **What had she done?** She had destroyed herself by her own hands! And for what? For something she wasn't able to comprehend nor to have! Love! Love, **love!** And now, besides not having anything of all this, besides the fact that she would be nevermore what she had been, the woman she was once, over and above all this, to fill up the measure, now she would have also Trip's contempt.

She... she no longer would take Phlox's medicines. Nevermore! If she had to die, killed by the drug or by these damned emotions, that she had wanted to savour and couldn't control, following the dream of a love she couldn't have; that the drug was capable of blunting and simultaneously of arousing, in a perverted and vicious circle, may this occur soon! And to hell with the mission!

Trip's voice rose again, dragging her out from her woeful, miserable thoughts.

But the voice was low and mild. It sounded… considerate. Caring. It sounded as the voice of _her_ Trip.

"Are you okay?"

She lifted her eyes, timorous, unable to believe to the sweetness of Trip's tone, between fear and desire.

She gazed at his eyes. And saw they were clear. Their colour was blue again, they were Trip's eyes.

He was smiling.

Tenderly.

At her.

She nodded again, still unable to speak, savouring with trembling wonder that smile that he was giving her.

"Good." His voice was more and more sweet.

His hand rose to caress her cheek with fond care. "I think the Captain can wait yet a little, right Hon?

Without giving her time to do the slightest move, he took her softly by her hand and turned, leading her to her bed.

She let him lead her, without daring to oppose not even with the slightest resistance.

_Nor did she wish to do it._

He made her sit on the bed with firm gentleness, looked down at her from above, still smiling, as she continued to be quiet, nestled with joyous amazement in his care, afraid to do anything, afraid even to dare to think.

He lowered himself, until his face was just a few inches from hers, and stared at her with a clinical eye and, at the same time, gently playful.

He spoke, low, softly, by caressing the skin of her visage with his mild breath. "Mh, no, no, no. Maybe now you're also fine, but your appearance is horrible. That's not good."

He winked at her. "Do you want to present yourself so on the bridge, by chance? Think what they may think of, the dear Jon and all of our dear colleagues."

T'Pol felt a pang within. What ... what could they think of ... the Captain and all the others?

Trip caressed her eyes with his, immediately noticing the flash of fear that had passed across hers. He understood. He winked again. He stroked her cheek once more.

"Well, maybe they will think that some lucky mortal has finally managed to make… a little broken… our always composed Vulcan First Officer."

T'Pol opened her mouth as if to speak. But she could not. How ... how sweet, how enchanting, was the voice of Trip!

How smoothing. Quieting. Calming. Relaxing.

How was it possible that he behaved this way? Where had his anger gone? And how was it possible that her inner turmoil seemed to fade away, like the soft morning mist in the warmth of the rising sun, at the sound of his voice?

"But they won't be able to speculate about anything, neither on this nor on anything else, okay darlin'?"

Trip rose from his bent position, turned around, went to the bathroom. His voice sounded sprightly and gleeful, from inside the bathroom. "We do not have much time, but something we can do."

He reappeared in the room, paused for a moment. He was holding a comb, a brush and a towel, a little wet.

He smiled again and then went straight to T'Pol.

He began to comb her hair and brush it, stopping occasionally to observe the results of his work.

She was silent and immovable.

She was letting him do to her everything he wanted.

It was… _**splendid**_.

Trip finally stopped. He contemplated the result of his work with self-satisfied expression. "Okay. So I like you."

He put down the comb and the brush and drew nigh the towel to the face of T'Pol. "The last touch."

He began to pass the towel gently on her face, cleaning it carefully, removing all traces of her just passed… incursion. About his own appearance ... well, no one would be surprised to see him a little scraggly and messy in his kingdom, in the engine room. Maybe a few giggles, and nothing more.

He straightened up, in the end. "Ah, perfect! Here's again, my beautiful and tidy T'Pol."

The towel caught up with other objects. "Come on, stand up now."

T'Pol obeyed.

Promptly. Without the minimal hesitation, nor any shadow of protest.

Trip looked at her, always playful, gently playful.

He ordered, in a falsely gruff voice. "Straighten your back, what the heck! Remember who you are!"

He laughed at his own joke and at the abrupt and immediate straightening of T'Pol's back, at his order.

Then he became serious. "Now we really must go. Maybe I can be allowed to be a little late, people know one can not expect too much from me." - He laughed again. – "You know, I'm Charles Tucker the Third. Alias Trip. "

His expression got serious again. "But you can't, you're T'Pol."

He turned to reach the exit door, and in the meantime he spoke. "I will go first, trying to avoid being seen out. Given our delay, some gossipmonger might feel enticed to put his nose in our business."

He stopped at the door, opened it cautiously pushing his head out.

He turned. "No one."

He smiled again. But this time it was a grave smile.

The eyes were blue. But were staring at her with determination.

"Let's go see what the problem is. After, we will talk."

T'Pol, nodded again. She could not yet speak. She was not sure that he may not see that her chin had begun to tremble.

The fear was back inside her.

It was mitigated, yes. Who knows how, who knows why, Trip had been able to calm her, to make her regain at least partially the control of herself.

But now the fear was back. With handedness. He would have wanted to know everything.

Everything!

And this time, she should tell him.

Trip smiled one last time, then went out, shutting the door behind him.

T'Pol stood motionless a moment, then ... ran to the door.

She had to get out of there, and not only because her place on the bridge was waiting for her!

She had to go out there and just! She had to get out of that room! **She had to go out from there!**

She needed a bit of normalcy, of the routine of her work, even of the unexpected in her work. She had to dive into it.

SHE HAD TO GET OUT OF THERE!

She rushed out into the corridor without worrying that someone might see. On the other hand there was a current emergency. At the most, people might be surprised that she was still there and not already in her place.

She walked briskly to the elevator and pressed the call button.

She entered it.

Inside hovered the alluring fragrance of Trip's skin.

Of his body.

Of him.

The heart of T'Pol, beating furiously inside her chest, twitched in a sore pang of fear.

* * *

_**End of chapter six**_

_**TBC**_

_So, what do you think, my friends and dearest readers? Is the fog beginning to fade away? Have you started to have some ideas of what is happening to our two Trips and to our two T'Pols?_

_And how will things go on, for our dear lovebirds, in the two universes?_

_And which universes these are, I am persuaded now you have understood._

* * *

**(*) _Please read my story "Depths", at Triaxian Silk, in order to understand what Trip means._**

**(**) _Please read my story "Shore Leave", in order to fully understand what all this means._**


	7. Eyes

**Similitudes**

**By Asso**

_**Chapter Seven**_

"_**Eyes"**_

* * *

_My dearest readers, my friends, I think I managed to make your ideas a little clearer than they were at the beginning of this ride. Now you are aware of what we are talking about._

_In the previous chapter you have been able to see that something has happened, something unusual, to speak with an understatement. There has been a jump, so to speak, or to be exact, a splitting. From what was a single universe, we went to have two: the "normal", so to speak, and the E2 universe. So, from that time, (and - focus on that - from a precise time, ie since Trip fought the battle within, torn between wanting to reveal himself to T'Pol and not wanting to do it), we have two Trips, two T'Pols, two Phloxs, two Archers, and so on._

_I ask you to bear in mind this fact, my dear friends and readers, because it is really important. If at the beginning all those "Here" and "There", with which I named the various paragraphs, could be, and were in fact, a sort of literary artifice by which I tried to gently guide you into what my sick mind had engineered, trying surreptitiously to capture your attention, now things absolutely are no longer like this._

_At that time, the T'Pol and Trip and Phlox talking, thinking and acting were the same, now they are not. If you remember, in the first chapter, at a certain moment, the title of the last paragraph brings together both Here and There, as if to say that in fact the people we were talking about were the same. In practice, there was the germ, the overshadowing of what would happen._

_Now it happened, and the Trip who speaks and thinks and acts "Here", it is not the Trip who speaks and thinks and acts "There". Just as T'Pol._

_But, in the end, it is also true that they are still the same people._

_And even the situations they must face are, mutatis mutandis, the same._

_Similitudes, right?_

* * *

**Similitudes**

_**Chapter Seven**_

"_**Eyes"**_

_**Here.**_

The bridge was packed and everyone's attention was focused on his own instruments. No one seemed to pay too much attention to her, as she entered, and there were good reasons. T'Pol realized the reason for the Captain's call. The nebula Degra had spoken about, the subspace corridor they should go through, was on the screen. The moment had come, and this, per se, was enough to explain the Captain's call, but the matter was also that everyone knew that Kovaalans could surely be in the neighbourhood, so things could be not as they should have been. Furthermore the Captain had become very apprehensive, in recent times, he no longer had always the coolness and lucidity needed for his role. T'Pol had became painfully aware of this. So it could also be that the urgency of his call was excessive.

Or maybe not.

There was too much calm, out in space. By now they had learned to be wary of calm. Too often it had been only apparent, too often it had preceded the storm. And too often they had turned out to be not sufficiently prepared to face the gale's violence.

Therefore, the Captain's reasons could be well understood, and T'Pol acknowledged it immediately, even in the state of mental mess in which she was and against which she was desperately trying to fight with all her forces.

Just because of that, because of the situation that everyone was studying, that they had to handle, nobody, the Captain included, appeared to be noticing her inconceivable, though slight, delay, or her somewhat uncertain walking and slightly a bit too rigid, even for her, or maybe the Captain simply didn't want to point out such a weird event just at those moments. Maybe... maybe afterward she should face his severe reprimand or, even worse, his eventual questions. His, quite likely, if not certainly, _embarrassing_ questions. Anyway, talking of embarrassment, unpleasant and uncomfortable, there hasn't been any of it, no one said anything, there had been no awkward reaction. Neither from the Captain, nor from anyone else.

Thanks to ... thanks to what? To whom? To God perhaps? To that God whom Humans invoked so often, in season and out of season?

Trip's colloquialism exploded in her mind.

*_Stop it! He's gone, for you!__ He__ no__ longer exists__! Control yourself. There is no space here for your… for your damned emotions! You had the Trellium, right? You've injected yourself with it, stupid and illogical junkie that you are nothing. Now the hard and iron control that all Vulcans must have and show, you too, is back. Is not it? You ... you are no longer in abstinence! So, enough! To work! Take advantage of the fact that all are too busy and worried for realizing the strangeness of your delay and your behaviour. Go to your console, without attracting too much attention. And work! With your usual deadpan expression and your habitual efficient conduct. Play the T'Pol that everyone knows. And do not think of __**him!**_*

T'Pol fought back that nagging worry, that torment, which... which sooner or later would have smashed her. From her console, in front of which she was now sitting, she heard Reed's words.

"Degra said these Kovaalans have only one or two ships inside the nebula."

It was evident that Lieutenant Reed knew that things could be not so; not for nothing there had been the Captain's alarm, the urgency of his calling everyone to their places.

Reed's assertion was nothing more than one of those strange, illogical ways that Humans have and show in order to find the courage and strength to face adversity. Try to deny the worst by evoking the best. Underline, illogically, the shadow of a truth that you know could be untrue and that you wish were true.

T'Pol realized it was time to intervene. After all, what could be better than to have recourse to her usual behaviour, to show everyone that she was present, and alert, and attentive? It was enough to say what everyone expected more or less that she would say, if needed, at the words of Reed, namely the cold and flat negation of the false truth that everyone was afraid to see, even Reed; in the manner, so typical of Vulcans and so irritating to Humans - as Trip, _he and always he_, had driven her to understand - of bringing in full light, with impeccable logic, what Humans in a sense already know and are already facing in their own way.

Sure, she had to say it, what she had detected with her devices. It was logical and obvious that she had to say it. But in the way, in the words, that everyone could expect from her.

Just as a Vulcan should do.

_Just as she, the T'Pol whom each of her shipmates knew, should have done._

She spoke, quietly and professionally, being careful that in her tone and choice of words it could be perceived - a little, not too much - that bit of annoying coolness, of galling Vulcan haughtiness that there had to be. She had promised it herself, since she had made her decision, in... in the second wonderful night that she and Trip had spent together: a little more, just a little more, of those… of those _fairytale_ nights, then stop. Then, no longer… love. No longer Trip. No longer silly ideas on a possible absurd Bond between her and_ the Chief Engineer_. She would come back to be - had to go back to be – the… kick in the ass that Commander Tucker had made her understand that she, often, very often, was. At least before that she and he...

_Because it was not possible for her to reveal to him that she... she ... _

She rabidly broke off the insane circle of his inane thoughts "It would appear that his information is out of date. There are at least half a dozen ships."

"According to Degra, they're not very tolerant of trespassers. How close are they to the corridor?"

If she had been a Human, T'Pol would surely have sighed with relief, and, despite being a Vulcan, it was extremely difficult for her not to do it. The Captain's words showed that he had not noticed, or hadn't wanted to see, anything wrong in her. He had addressed her exactly as he would have done under normal conditions.

She showed no hesitation. Efficiency. Vulcan efficiency. _Her efficiency._ "Within sixty thousand kilometres."

"We'll ionise the hull. That should mask our approach for a while."

T'Pol felt Archer's words roll down, heavy, inside her.

*_Sure, sure, Captain. Let's do as you say. And then what? What do we do then? Oh Trip! Yes, him! He would be able to find a system, together with me! Together with... But he is no longer with you, T'Pol. You have cast him out. Do you remember, T'Pol? You have cast him out from you! _*

Lieutenant Reed brought sharply T'Pol back in the world where she was. _In which she had to stay._ But why? WHY? Why it was so hard for her to act and think as she had to - absolutely had to! - do? What had it done to her, the Trellium? _What had __**she**__ done to herself?_

"I suggest we enter here, above this layer of metreon gas. It should reflect our engine signature, create multiple sensor ghosts, false readings. If we're lucky they won't know which one to fire at."

Right. Well said. Well thought out. Reasonable. Rational. Logical. And hardly effective. Trip would have supplied far different suggestions. She was sure. Suggestions impossible to realize, at first sight, but that he - _he, yes!_ - by working together with her, _by bickering with her_, would have been able to put in place, to translate into reality, to put into practice. Risky, explosives suggestions. And effective.

Trip. Her Trip. Where was he? With his loved engines, for sure. Why didn't he left his engines and come there? As very often he used to do, even before, long before that unforgettable night. Just ... just - she knew! - to see her, to cast on her those furtive glances and so significant. Those glances which she pretended not to notice. And which she felt. And desired. Wanted.

*_Oh Trip, come here! We need you! __**I **__need you! My .. my ..._ *

No. He was not hers. He was no longer hers. He would have been hers nevermore. She had left him completely to his engines.

"Tactical alert. Take us in."

Mayweather replied with words and deeds to the Captain's order. "Aye, sir."

*_Here we go. Enough, now. Remember who you are, T'Pol. Remember to be as you have__ to be._*

T'Pol focused on her instruments.

*_In this way. Yes. Your duty. Only this. Only ... And this? What's this?_*

Calm and controlled, as it had to be, her voice rose. "A ship is dropping out of warp."

"Can you identify it?"

Efficiency and readiness failed T'Pol, and it wasn't due to her hardly bearable and even less manageable state of mind, to her confused mood. She hesitated to respond to the Captain's question. *_This couldn't be right.__*_ She heard her own voice repeat her interior baffled averment. "This can't be right."

"T'Pol?"

She felt the confused perplexity in the voice of the Captain, in his uttering her name to call her to say what she had detected with her instruments.

T'Pol forced herself to be T'Pol. She managed to do it. "It's Starfleet, NX class."

"Are you sure it's not a sensor reflection?"

Fortunately, Reed's question helped her keep things in the normal range. It is comforting when you have to handle purely technical questions; you can do it with ease, and so allow yourself to get distracted, as by automatism, from other and awfully nerve-racking issues. That was her bread, Trip would say. "We haven't entered the nebula yet."

Observations and comments began to interweave in the bridge. Humans, as it was their custom, tried to somehow foreshadow what was to come before this happened. They sought explanations for something that would have been explained by itself, in a moment. So it was the Humans. T'Pol now comprehended them very well. She… was getting along with them very well. _She was getting along with Trip, very well._ It was... it had been delicious to bicker with him.

"Whoever they are, they're on an intercept course.", said Mayweather.

"We're within visual range.", said Ensign Sato.

Now they could see. A rear view showed a ship approaching theirs. A Starfleet ship, NX class. Just as she, T'Pol, had said.

The game of phrases bouncing from one to another went on. "Must be the NX 02, Columbia.", said Malcolm Reed.

"I don't think that's Columbia.", said Hoshi Sato.

Then, a distinct and clean-cut image appeared. It allowed all to see, clearly, the ship's markings. It read: NX01 Enterprise.

The voice of Ensign Sato rose uncertain, between the silence of all. "We're being hailed."

A man appeared on the screen. His eyes were sharp and piercing. His ears were pointed, surmounted by human-like eyebrows. He did not dwell on preambles. "Captain Archer, you must reverse course immediately."

The voice of the Captain sounded harsh in his response. That was normal. T'Pol now knew him well. He hated to deal with situations that he did not understand, he could not dominate. He… T'Pol found herself to sigh inside herself - … he was not Trip.

"Who are you?"

The man's voice on the screen resounded peremptory. "There's no time to explain. Alter your heading."

The Captain realized that… - How would Trip have said it? - ... that he had to stand the gaff. He turned to Mayweather. "Come about, Ensign." Then, harshly, to the man on the screen. "Would you tell me what the hell is going on?"

The man showed no sign of the slightest response. He just looked at each of them with his piercing eyes and expressive.

To T'Pol it seemed... no, it was more than just an impression... that the man's gaze lingered on her.

She looked at his eyes. They were not like his ears, were not Vulcan-like. They were human. And tremendously expressive. Just as, just as...

A new emotion, strange, indefinable, started to stir within her. She could not catalogue it. It was not in the gamut of emotions that she, painfully and joyfully, had come to feel and to savour since she had stained herself with her fault. No, even long before that. Since her path had crossed that of Trip. It was strong and yet elusive. It was a mixture of uncertainty and fear and wonder. Seemed like something that would admonish and warn and also mock her. Was acute. It hurt. And it was sweet. It was painfully pleasant. Or perhaps it would have been more correct to say "pleasantly painful".

_Those eyes… those eyes…_

_If it had not been for the different colour, T'Pol could have sworn that those eyes could have been the eyes of Trip. _

But the ears were unequivocally Vulcan.

_Like hers._

* * *

_**There.**_

The bridge, Hoshi Sato, Malcolm Reed, Travis Mayweather. The Captain.

And not Trip.

He - of course, and rightly so - was not there. He was in the engine room. To do his duty.

But afterward ... later ... when they would have passed through the subspace corridor and the emergency for which the Captain had called all to their places had been resolved ... then, she should have met him.

And she would have to talk to him.

And she would have to try to explain to him.

T'Pol did not even know how she had been able to act with such a normality, with such quiet efficiency, with the cold and sure professionalism which was her brand.

What, or whom, had she to thank for this? And for the fact that nobody had seemed to want to point out, to emphasize, her slight, but unbelievable and reproachable delay? Unbelievable and reproachable in any case but even more in reason of whom she was. And also her gait, a little too uncertain and also a little too stiff - she had felt it - even for her?

That God, perhaps? The God whom Humans call so often, in season and out of season?

Trip's colloquialism burst in her mind.

*_Enough! Stop it! Not now. Not now! There is something else to do, now! He, __**precisely he**__, has put you in the conditions to be here, ready and efficient. As you must be. Do not disappoint him, T'Pol! Do not disappoint him, at least in this! Deserve him! His care! At least in this! _*

She focused on her instruments. She heard the words of Lieutenant Reed.

"Degra said these Kovaalans have only one or two ships inside the nebula."

It was a desire, in a sense. That was clear. Regardless of his own words, Lieutenant Reed knew that most likely things were not so; if not, why the Captain's alarm? Why the urgency of his calling everyone to their places? Only because they were about to launch themselves inside the nebula? Yes, that was true, and even only for this all of them had to be in their places. But the Captain, everyone, knew that what Degra had said could have been inexact.

And actually it was so.

T'Pol realized this at the same time that she understood it was time for her to intervene. She had to show everyone that she was there, present, and alert, and attentive. She had to act just as everyone expected more or less that she would act, if needed. She had to talk just as everyone expected more or less that she would talk, at the words of Reed, if it were necessary, namely that she would show everyone the bitter reality, even in the stolid way, in the manner, so typical to Vulcans and so irritating to Humans - as Trip, _he and always he_, had driven her to understand - of bringing in full light, with impeccable logic, what Humans already know in a sense and are already facing in their own way.

Sure, she had to say it, what she had detected with her devices. It was logical and obvious that she had to say it. But in the way, in the words, that everyone could expect from her.

Just as a Vulcan should do.

Just as she, the T'Pol whom each of her shipmates knew, should have done.

_Just as Trip would have wanted her to do._

She spoke, quietly and professionally, being careful that in her tone and choice of words could be perceived - a little, not too much - that bit of annoying coolness, of galling Vulcan haughtiness that there had to be. Was she or not, after all, the… _kick in the ass_ that Trip had made her understand that she, often, very often, was? At least before that she and he… So, come on! This she had to be! No detail, however small, could be overlooked if she had to look exactly like everyone was expecting that she should appear. If not ... if not, all her efforts - _all efforts of Trip_ - would go to waste.

_And the conversation that she should have had with him, later, would have been even more distressing for her._

She rabidly broke off the insane circle of his inane thoughts. "It would appear that his information is out of date. There are at least half a dozen ships."

"According to Degra, they're not very tolerant of trespassers. How close are they to the corridor?"

It was hard for T'Pol not to sigh with relief as a Human would do, because the Captain's words, the way he had addressed her just as he would done under normal circumstances, showed clearly that her delay, her unprecedented behaviour, had passed unnoticed, or, at least, that the Captain did not want to point it out. At least not now. But frankly, the eventuality, the idea of having to face the Captain, later, if he had wanted some explanation for this, was for T'Pol acutely discomforting, sure, but much less discomforting - _less frightening, less painful_ - than the thought of the encounter she should have had with Trip, of the conversation she should have with him.

Of the explanations that she should give him.

She showed no hesitation. Efficiency. Vulcan efficiency. The efficiency that was her own, _that Trip would have wanted her to show_. "Within sixty thousand kilometres."

"We'll ionise the hull. That should mask our approach for a while."

T'Pol felt Archer's words roll down, heavy, inside her.

*_It would take him, Trip! It would take his working together with me! Together we would find a more fruitful way than yours, Captain. But how can I call him? How can I suggest to you, Captain, to call him right now? With what face can I expect from him that he still wants to work with me? That he can still trust me?* _Suddenly T'Pol realized how she was wrong, because, of course, his trust in her could only be faded away, but for the rest….*_Oh, He would! I know! He is frank, and honest, and sincere. Not as me! And he would put the duty before all the disgust, all the resentment he might feel for me. Was not it he who put me in the conditions to be here, ready, and capable, and efficient? _*

Yes, it had been him. Trip had treated her with such a gentleness and with such a care that she had not even managed to fully realize what was happening. For her, for the sake of her, he had repulsed back in his throat all the loathing and all the dudgeon he had to feel for her. And that he couldn't not feel even now. And... and that he would feel forever.

T'Pol did have neither the means nor the time to even think to turn into reality what her confused brain mulled over. Lieutenant Reed brought sharply her back in the true reality, in the reality where she was and where she had to stay.

But why? WHY? Why it was so hard for her to act and think as she had to - absolutely had to! - do? What had it done to her, the Trellium? _What had __**she**__ done to herself?_

"I suggest we enter here, above this layer of metreon gas. It should reflect our engine signature, create multiple sensor ghosts, false readings. If we're lucky they won't know which one to fire at."

Right. Well said. Well thought out. Reasonable. Rational. Logical. But how really effective? It was Trip the one who was always capable of suggesting unthinkable and yet fruitful ways to get incredible results. Results that seemed impossible to realize, at first sight, but that he, if… if helped by her, _while bickering with her_, would have been able to put in place, to translate into reality, to put into practice. Risky, explosives ways. And effective.

Trip. Her Trip. Where was he? With his loved engines, obviously. Why didn't he leave his engines and come there? As very often he used to do, even before, long before that unforgettable night. Just ... just - she knew! - to see her, to cast on her those furtive glances and so significant. Those glances which she pretended not to notice. And which she felt. And desired. Wanted.

*_Oh Trip, come here! We need you! __**I **__need you! __**Come here to bicker with me!**__ My .. my ..._*

But what was she thinking? What was she demanding? Had she gone mad? Was she reduced to such an extent?

*_Enough, T'Pol! Do not squander thus the efforts he has made to make you be here, in the way... at least apparently in the way that everyone expects from you. That __**he **__expects from you! _*

"Tactical alert. Take us in."

Mayweather replied with words and deeds to the Captain's order. "Aye, sir."

*_Here we go. Enough, now. Remember who you are, T'Pol. Remember to be as __**he**__ wants you to be._*

T'Pol focused forcefully on her console.

*_In this way. Yes. Your duty. Only this. Only ..._*

The Kovaalans' attack interrupted the faltering ride of her thoughts.

* * *

_**Here.**_

They were in the conference room, all sitting around the table. She was there. The Captain had wanted her, or, to be more precise, the Captain had told her that it had been the other Captain, the Captain of the other _Enterprise_, who had solicited him for her presence. Lorian, this was the name of that Captain.

And now here he was, sitting in front of her.

With those Vulcan ears.

And those human eyes.

So expressive.

As those of Trip.

T'Pol found herself not wanting to look openly at that Captain, he made her feel ill at ease.

Why? Surely not because he had said that if _Enterprise_ – this _Enterprise_ - had entered the subspace corridor, it would have been thrown back in time a hundred and seventeen years and surely not because to the question of the Captain about how he could know this, he had replied that it was because this had already happened and that he and his crew were there, now, to prevent history repeating itself.

No. Not for that.

This could be difficult to assimilate, could also be upsetting, could be accepted or refused, could be believed or rejected, could be debated, could be investigated, but, certainly, for no logical reason could engender in her the subtle sense of uneasiness that she felt if she tried to look at that man.

Why had she to stay so, in a pose falsely relaxed, with her hands hidden under the table, resting on her lap, with her head turned forward, with her eyes falsely listless, falsely apathetic, fixed to look ahead, without setting on anything and anybody in particular?

Why had she to avoid _those_ eyes?

The man started to speak again, firmly and confidently.

Breaking up her disquieting musing.

"The Kovaalans attacked _Enterprise_ as soon as it entered the nebula."

* * *

_**There.**_

There was no room for futile thoughts, now. The world was a sussultatory mayhem around them.

The strained voice of Reed. "Phase cannons are offline."

The rough order of the Captain. Her peremptory demand. "Torpedoes, full spread. How long until we reach the corridor?"

Her own voice, tense and acute. "Eighteen seconds."

Again Reed. "All plating's gone."

And Mayweather. "We're losing speed."

And again the Captain. "Hold your course."

And finally the subspace corridor

And the view of the three attacking ships that banked and went off.

* * *

_**Here.**_

The deep and sure voice of Lorian continued the narrative.

"The trip through the corridor took only a few seconds, but it didn't take long before your crew realised something was wrong."

While her sensation of disquietness increased.

* * *

_**There.**_

Now calm had returned. They were trying to realize the situation.

Reed put an end to their fears. "No sign of pursuit."

And the Captain laid the fateful question. "Where are we?"

It was up to her to answer. "We've travelled eleven point six light years."

The obvious next question of the Captain. "Degra?"

It was up to her again. And her answer would not be liked to anyone. Just as it was not liked by her. "Nothing on long range sensors."

Why? Why was that?

Uncertainty. Mute issues.

Then, Mayweather. "Captain, the stars. They're not where they're supposed to be."

She felt the eyes of the Captain on her. "Are you sure we're at the right co-ordinates?"

She heard her own voice. Low and uncertain. "Yes."

* * *

_**Here.**_

"_Enterprise_ was in the right place, but it was over a hundred years early."

There was silence in the Conference Room. Everyone was thinking of what the man's statement implied. It was hard to digest his story, it was hard to believe that he and his crew might be ...

T'Pol lowered her eyes.

_... those eyes, the eyes of that man… his ears…_

The unfolding of the thread of T'Pol's unsettling thoughts overlapped and mingled with the next words of the Captain of the other _Enterprise_. "We're not entirely sure why this happened, but we have a theory. We think your impulse wake destabilised the corridor, causing it to shift in time."

The rough voice of the Captain, of her captain, of Jonathan Archer, rose, harsh and tense. Almost nasty. "Why didn't you… didn't we… go back through it?"

He had corrected himself, and the correction gave body to the thoughts of all.

_To her thoughts._

_**They**, those others, the members of the other Enterprise, which could be nothing but their own Enterprise, if one wanted to listen to the story of their Captain._

_And **they**, the members of this Enterprise, to whom Captain Archer wanted to allude with that "we"._

_The two Enterprises could also be the same ship, but certainly it could not be the same the two crews, after one hundred and seventeen years the ship had entered the subspace corridor._

_So ..._

It was that woman, the one that Lorian had presented as his first officer, to respond to Captain Archer. That woman with that protrusion down to her forehead to her nose. That woman, whose name was Karyn. Karyn ... _Archer._

* * *

_**There.**_

They were in the Ready Room. She and the Captain. Only the two of them. And certainly not because the Captain had wanted to ask her account for her delay.

There was much more, now. Much more to think about, than her behaviour. And she could not quite understand why, but this "much more" made even more acute the fear she felt for the meeting she would have to face with Trip.

The Captain was standing up with his back to her. His voice resonated hoarse and uncertain. Decidedly disquieted. "One hundred and seventeen years."

Even her voice resounded hoarse and uncertain. And uneasy. Disquiet and uncertainty had become her constant companions, by now. "Yes, Captain"

The Captain turned to her. "And you say that we can not go back?"

* * *

_**Here.**_

T'Pol almost leaped at hearing that woman pronounce her name in her response.

"T'Pol eventually determined that ships can only travel through this corridor in one direction."

* * *

_**There.**_

"Yes, Captain." T'Pol managed to make her voice a little firmer.

The Captain looked at her gravely. "I'll notify the crew. Let Travis know we'll be getting underway."

Logic, that, despite everything, was still a very important part of her, pushed T'Pol to ask the most logical question. She knew that the Captain might even not have the answers, but she had to ask such a question. And he had to respond, he had at least to try to do it. However, she took things to far. She also had no answers, or, to be honest, she preferred not to come alone to formulate what these answers could have been, or, rather, _should _have been. So, she asked, quite simply, where they should direct themselves. She asked, in a low voice: "What course should we set?"

But from there, from her apparently simple question, would inevitably come all the rest and what the Captain said, was clear proof. "Even if we found a way out of the Expanse, we can't go back to Earth. We'd be contaminating our own culture, our own history."

T'Pol gave another little push. To give the Captain the courage to go all the way, but also, she couldn't hide it from herself, to avoid to go herself, alone, along that way. "Cochran's warp flight won't happen for another twenty six years."

The need of Trip's presence gnawed acutely in her heart. Why would the Captain never ask for advise from the one who not a few times had proved to be the most equipped, to give it? But she lacked the courage to suggest to the Captain to call his Chief Engineer to consult with him, even though logic would have wanted both his two Senior Officers to be involved in the decisions that had to be taken in those dire circumstances. Logic wasn't Captain's forte, though, and, besides, _for reasons that were very clear to T'Pol_, he avoided constantly she and Trip being together when he had to decide something. He feared an eventual alliance on their part, or, to better say, he did not want that any alliance, _or anything like that_, could be formed between them. On the other hand, she was afraid, right now, to meet Trip. Her desire was, against all logic, to delay as much as possible _whatever_ encounter she should have with him.

The look the Captain gave her said to T'Pol that they had come to the point. She had foreseen what the Captain would say, at her statement. She knew where he was going to end up. "Maybe there's a way we can use this to our advantage."

And she knew that the boat in which she had embarked by her own choice when she had decided to support, to join, the crew, the Captain...Trip... in their mission, had become a boat from which she would never be able to disembark.

The fate of _Enterprise _was her fate.

The call that she had felt, that had potently demanded her, when, without knowing it, her path had crossed that of Trip for the first time, in the airport, long before she had to embark on _Enterprise_, when, at the beginning of all, she had smelled, had savoured for the first time, his mightily exacting scent, _his overpowering scent_, not yet knowing who was its source; the imperious call to which she had tried to resist, even knowing not being able to do it; to which she had eventually ended up to yield and that in a sense had pushed her into the abyss in which she had fallen... **(*)**

It had become a chain that she would never be able to break.

Even if she had really wanted.

So, she responded with what was nothing more than a futile expedient to delay the inevitable conclusion of that surreal meeting; a sole word, almost sighed between her lips. "How?"

She knew that that simple word would have drawn out from the Captain what, in the end of the briefing, or, to say it all, already since its beginning, she was aware that he would have ended up to plan with her help.

_Without knowing what this would mean for her._

The Captain tried to straighten his shoulders, to appear convinced, sure. But his voice was not. "We know the date when Earth will be attacked by the first Xindi probe. We may be able to figure out a way to warn them, or even prevent the attack."

T'Pol pulled out with not concealed fatigue the last of her circumstantiations. Logical, and meaningful, and purposely searched. "The probe won't be deployed for more than a hundred years."

The Captain did not answer, he remained silent. He could do no more than merely stare at her with blank eyes. He knew what was the only answer which there could be for her remark.

And also T'Pol knew well that answer.

* * *

_**Here.**_

"Your crew realised it would be their descendants."

The last words of the narrative of the Captain of the other _Enterprise_ fell, heavy, in the silence of the Conference Room.

He paused, looking around, with those piercing eyes he had.

*_Those eyes. Those eyes! But they are not blue! THEY ARE NOT!_*

T'Pol tried desperately to separate her thoughts from the narrative of the man. She internalized what he was now saying, and he was telling to all what they had by now understood.

And the undefined sensation she had felt when his face had appeared on the screen grew up more and more.

"Who'd have to complete this mission." His voice deepened, became more serious, if possible. "It was only a matter of time before the first child was born. _Enterprise_ became a generational ship. You showed your children how to operate and maintain its systems, and they did the same for their children."

*_Enterprise became a generational ship. Children! OUR children!*_

T'Pol tried with all her forces to be logical and rational, not to be overwhelmed by those _damn_ blinding emotions she had now to fight against. But how could she do it? _How, with those eyes in front of her?_

She heard the sceptical and sour voice of the Captain, of Archer. "You've been flying around the Expanse for over a century?", and she could not help but make heard also her voice. Sceptical and cold. She could not admit _it_. Must not to admit it! Because… because that could have meant that… T'Pol was unable to unbar in full the thread, _the real meaning_, of her disquieting thoughts. "That's unlikely. Enterprise doesn't have fuel or provisions for such a long journey."

_Those _eyes rested on her. She could not be mistaken. They had the same light, they were as cheeky and sarcastic and mocking... _and sweet_... as those of...

Those eyes were talking more than the man's mouth. "You've hardly changed, mother."

T'Pol hardly managed to remain calm. *_Mother. MOTHER! _*

That man, that _unreal _Captain, Lorian, had marched out in the open and she didn't manage to do anything but talk back weakly, as... as a stolid a jackass, in what resounded more as an exclamation than a question. "I beg your pardon?"

She could feel around her, over her, the looks, the keen attention of all.

Those mocking and irreverent eyes lingered a moment longer on her, then they got up, turned all around.

The words of the owner of those eyes were addressed to all, but were an answer for her. "You made alliances with other species, traded technology for food and supplies. You even acquired a few alien crew members."

Then those eyes came to rest, severe and serious, on Captain Archer. "We did our best to carry out the mission you gave us, Captain."

It was not friendly the tone of the replica of the Captain. As usual he acted on impulse, he distrusted what he did not understand. "To destroy the first Xindi probe." He paused briefly. "But you failed."

Those eyes seemed to lose a little of their light. "We had years to prepare, but in the end we were only one star ship. Our weapons were no match for the Xindi."

Then the light of those eyes reappeared, almost violent, contrasting the calm and quiet and sure tone of the voice. "We couldn't stop the first attack, but we can help you stop the second. We can make certain you reach the rendezvous with Degra this time."

T'Pol reinserted herself in the dialogue. She could not surrender yet, but she was aware that hers could only be a weak objection. There is no limit to being silly, when you started to be silly, Trip once had said to her, angry with himself for having repeated the same mistake twice. How he had been right! "You said we couldn't travel through the corridor."

It wasn't Lorian who responded, it was his first officer, that woman, the one whose last name was sounding Archer. She handed over a PADD, in talking. "You won't need to. We've encountered dozens of species. Some of them shared their propulsion technology with us."

Lorian returned to speak, while motioning to the PADD. "We got these schematics from Haridan traders. We can use them to modify your injector assembly. You'll be able to travel at warp six point nine for brief intervals."

Another weak objection. How much can one be silly? How should she interpret that "no limit" Trip had said? Literally? How would a Vulcan do it? Apparently it was so, since she wasn't able to stop herself. She could not. "The hull wasn't designed for that speed."

Those eyes playfully mocking rested again on her, but now there was a tinge of irritation, of impatience in them. Trip had been a very good teacher about how to improve her ability to know how to decipher the feelings and emotions in the human eyes. And certainly those eyes were human. _They carried within themselves the whole of humaneness that shone in the eyes of Trip._ "We'll show you how to reinforce structural integrity. You'll be able to reach Degra in less than two days."

T'Pol was just about to reply with another silly objection, even though she knew very well that if Lorian was there, now, to say and suggest what he was saying and suggesting, he could not but have prepared everything to perfection. The assumption of his presence among them, _on this_ _Enterprise_, could be difficult to accept, this yes, but certainly it was not by raising silly and childish objections that this assumption could be denied. There was another _Enterprise_, out there, to testify with its solid substantiality the veracity of what Lorian and his First Officer asserted.

And, as if that were not enough, there were those eyes, there was what T'Pol was feeling within, that unsettling inner turmoil.

It was Captain Archer who tried one last shot, as always not prone to deal with situations that he was not able to dominate. He certainly was not Trip! "You've made these modifications on your own ship?"

T'Pol has been well able to clearly perceive in the voice of Lorian, in the tone with which he spoke, that the hint of impatience and irritation that she had first been able to catch in his eyes, had been transposed also on his tongue. "Our plasma injectors are too old. They can't handle the stress. But your injectors are practically new."

He took a short pause, then spoke again. "You're still not convinced."

The impatience and irritation had become more evident. It had appeared also something that sounded like annoyance and frustration. Surak! What a really good teacher Trip had been! How… how nice it had been to learn from him!

But on the other hand, how could it be that she was unable to read well, very well, what those eyes expressed, _since they were so similar, so awfully similar to the eyes of Trip?_

The Captain erected the last bastion. "You've got to admit, it's a lot to accept."

Now there was urgency, in Lorian's voice. "We don't have a lot of time. You need to start these modifications."

All the understandable but stubborn distrust of Captain Archer fully revealed itself. "I'm not comfortable doing that just yet.", resounded his flat voice.

Doggedly, he wanted more evidence than that which was already in front of his nose. The other _Enterprise_ which was making a fine show of itself, out there, in space, was evidently not enough for him, nor, even less, the words of the one who called him-self Lorian or of his so-called First Officer, even though one could not really understand why they had to invent such a story.

Logic, that, despite everything, was still a very important part of her, said to T'Pol that Lorian and his First Officer were not lying.

For what should they have invented such nonsense? Why? For what purpose? And, admitting that they had wanted to do it, where would they have found another _Enterprise_? How would have Trip said it? In the top hat of... of Mandrake, yes, that strange character of those things, those comics that Trip loved so much?

Nevertheless she could understand Captain's resistance, even if her reasons were very different.

_The Captain couldn't know what Lorian's narrative, if true, would mean for her, assuming... assuming that the answer to the question about from where, from whom, it had come not as much those ears he had, in respect of which he had substantially already clearly spoken out, but rather his eyes, was the answer… the answer that she feared to already know._

That woman, Karyn Archer, put an end to the debate. "Perhaps we should go to Sickbay. Phlox can confirm our identity."

Logical. Absolutely logical. What objections could one ever raise against such a logical proposal?

T'Pol clasped her hands the one with the other under the table.

Now she would have that answer.

* * *

_**There.**_

Yes, T'Pol knew well the answer. _Enterprise_ would become like a little world travelling in the Expanse, and within itself it would have to find the resources to support itself. To live. Inside _Enterprise_ life was supposed to be perpetuated.

The men and women who lived in it would have to give birth to new lives, sprung from them.

T'Pol stood at the door of her cabin.

New lives.

Every man on _Enterprise_ would seek the woman who was for him.

Every woman on _Enterprise_ would seek the man who was for her.

The world suddenly became muffled around her. The sounds appeared distorted, the vision became blurred and unreal.

The inner turmoil that lately had become almost a part of her, that she had learned to recognize and understand what it preluded to, and that she had succeeded in dominating after she had left the Captain, during her trip up to her room, began to roar loudly into her.

She opened hastily the door and hurried to enter, closing it behind her and then leaning with her back to it. Exhausted. Afraid. With the world that was more and more twisted around her. With, at the stomach, that nasty feeling of nausea that by now she had got to acknowledge and understand what it meant.

She closed her eyes, trying to resist, not to be overwhelmed.

*_Every woman on Enterprise would seek the man who was for her._*

Strong, powerful, so vivid to make her feel bad, a face - well known, known in detail - appeared in her mind and, as if it were real, before her eyes, forcing her to open them as to watch it.

_Commander Tucker._

Trip.

The man for her.

The man just for her.

And who now, just now, just when every man and woman on _Enterprise_ would inevitably and finally feel free to indulge their desires and walk the path suggested by their heart, _just when she – she too! - could finally feel free to follow her heart_, just like Humans do, was not, could no longer be for her.

She slipped slowly to the ground, to sit up with her back abandoned against the door.

The world rumbled and was spinning around her.

Nausea made her sick.

Commander Tucker… *_Trip…_*

The man whose trust she had betrayed.

To whom she had lied.

Whom she had chased away.

The face in front of her looked stern at her, its eyes spoke. _"Keep calm, I will help you, again and every time it will be needed, just as I have done before. I will treat you with infinite kindness, as only I can do. I am not a man to forget what has passed between the two of us, I am not a man who could stop being close to you, in consequence of what you have done, of the lies that you have told me. But…"_

… But she knew that no word that she could say to him when they would talk could make her regain his confidence.

His love.

She had lost, for ever, his love.

She raised a hand as if to reach the vision.

She didn't manage to do it.

The face drew away, got shrank.

Only the eyes remained at last.

Blue.

So beautiful.

So distant.

They, too, disappeared.

* * *

_**Here.**_

There they were, all in the sickbay, all around Phlox, all tensed to assimilate his final judgment.

A judgment without appeal.

He had spoken without looking at them, his face turned to the monitor where it made beautiful extension of themselves the gene sequences of their "guests". "They are who they claim to be. Most of the young woman's ancestors were human, but there are also chromosomes from three species I've never seen before."

The doctor motioned to the monitor, indicating something on it. He did not turn. "These genetic markers belong to you, Captain. She would appear to be your great grand-daughter."

Then he half turned toward her, looking at her a little sideways and pointing with his hand at something else on the screen. Perhaps it was just her tension, _- Yes, damn it! Her tension!_ - but to T'Pol it seemed that his voice had a touch of teasing. But obviously it was impossible. "I've compared your genetic profile with Lorian's. These base pair sequences could only have come from you."

And so it was true. Lorian had not lied, nor about who he and his crew were, nor about who exactly he was.

Her son. She was his mother.

But… the father?

*_Those eyes!_*

T'Pol came next to Phlox, looking at the screen.

She paraded security and Vulcan self-control.

It was one of the hardest things she had ever done in her whole life.

She pointed with her hand on the monitor, at the genic sequence Phlox had just shown. It seemed... it seemed to her that her voice sounded fully restrained, altogether like her normal voice, when she spoke. "These chromosomes are human."

*_Those eyes!_*

She heard Phlox's voice from behind. "That's correct. They came from his father."

There was really, into the doctor's voice, that vein of subtle amusement that she seemed to perceive? Or.. or she had spent too much time with Trip?

*_Trip! Those eyes!_*

No, she wasn't mistaken. There was really something sounding as a thin teasing into Phlox's voice. He .. he seemed almost savour the way she was trying to know, without making direct questions. He... he was a doctor damn capable, sure! But was also so damn nosy! And he didn't seem to have many problems to display his ability to catch other people's fallings, as if he were pleased to do it. He seemed almost to enjoy to dig out and dig up the weaknesses of others! Trip had always said it to her!

*_Trip! Trip again! Always Trip! And… those eyes!_*

She turned to the doctor and looked at him with the most cold and sure, the most sceptical and dismissive look she had ever shown in her entire life and compared with the effort that has cost to her doing this, the effort she had done before to appear in perfect Vulcan-like control, had been less than a mere nothing.

She spoke as if she was stating a ruling of the High Command. No, even more. A ruling coming directly from Surak. "That's impossible. Human and Vulcan genomes are incompatible."

If it had been possible, she would have poked two fingers in the eyes of the physician, to turn off the mischievous light that shone in them, as he replied to her, with lightness, almost cheerful. Sometimes she really envied Humans! "According to Lorian, I discovered, or rather I will discover, a method of successfully combining human and Vulcan genomes."

She was spared being the one who had to lay the fateful question.

It was the Captain, and, even in the disguised but, nevertheless, decidedly active mental confusion in which she was at that moment, she could not say to be surprised, as well as, apparently, also Phlox, who did not even blink at the unexpected meddling of the Captain in a matter of this kind, at his improvident intruding in things that did not concern him at all, that pertained to the most intimate sphere, and even more so considering that she was Vulcan.

Point was that she knew why the Captain made that question. Oh yes, she knew, as she knew well the answer that Phlox would give.

She knew the reason for the hard and harsh tone that rang clear in the Captain's voice, and if she had turned to him and she could see his expression while he made that question, it wouldn't have needed any explanation about why on his face it was clearly visible that dark shadow, that scowling frown as he asked.

She knew exactly what he would have wanted to be for her, the thoughts and desires he harboured for her and therefore there was nothing to be surprised that it were just him the one who sombrely laid the question of which he, too, in all probability, not to say with certainty, already knew the answer.

"Who's the father?"

And Phlox answered.

With the amazed tone of one who is astonished that it can be asked a question whose answer is so obvious.

And the Captain… _and she_…. had the answer.

And this time she didn't make it.

T'Pol bent her shoulders and folded her arms on her breast as if to defend herself.

Her eyes stared into the void, showing clearly all the disquiet that stirred within her.

Now there was no escape, now everyone would know. If the T'Pol who had plummeted back in time had a son from _"him",_ no one would have doubted that she, the T'Pol who was still here, in the present, could and would like to have a child with the other _"him_" who was here, in her same present.

Her desires and her ... her feelings would become public domain.

It mattered little that she, swallowing her pride and her Vulcan decorum, could point out that it was another T'Pol, not her, the one who had had a son from him. Everyone would smile, with the mischievous smile of those having fun at expense of he who flounders, and would have thought she was lying knowing to lie.

And it was so! Because ... because that other T'Pol, her counterpart, was in fact still her!

Her! With her desires and ... and her attraction for _him_! Her... body and Katra attraction for _him_!

And _**He**_? Oh he… he too would understand! Of course that he would understand! And pretty well, this for sure! It could have been possible to say the worse of him, that he was the greatest champion of the worst flaws of the males of the Human race, that he was irritating, thoughtless, mocking, stubborn, baffling, unpredictable, volatile, annoying, irreverent, emotional, illogical. All this and even more. But surely it was impossible to not say also that he was acutely intelligent, extremely perceptive and awfully insightful. Consequently he would understand everything, even what no one else could be able to understand. So he would come back to her with very greater confidence, claiming rights that he would know that he had! He would put her on the spot, would have forced her to admit that she harboured feelings, _deep feelings_, for him, because it wouldn't have made sense that it were not so, since she, namely her other self, the other self who was nothing else but her, had accepted his... his love. Had reciprocated his love! Had wanted his love!

And she? What could she have done? What could she have said to him? How could she have done, if cornered? How could she do to tell him that she could not be with him because ... because ...

How had the other T'Pol done? What had she done, what had she said, that had enabled her to regain her Trip, the Trip whom both she, the other T'Pol, and she, the T'Pol who was here, had chased way from them? And then, what could this count? She was there, she was not in the past, not in the situation in which the other T'Pol had found herself, in which perhaps things could have been such as to permit that other self to do things that could not be allowed to her, things she could not afford.

Their destinies had become divided.

The other self with her Trip, and justified at having him, given the situation in which she and he had found themselves. And she, without!

And damned to fight against the archness of the Humans, against the suspects, the contemptuous disapproval that would be born among the members of her race and against Starfleet's rules, if ever they had come out unscathed and victorious from their mission; against the Captain, because of the slap he had received.

And, now, shortly, against the claims that "_He"_ would or could adduce.

And against herself and her desires.

Against her drug!

Without being able to be longer the one she had been!

Without daring ask the doctor for any ulterior help.

Without any possibility to have help from anyone.

And less than less… from **him**!

The world suddenly became muffled around her. The sounds appeared distorted, the vision became blurred and unreal.

Inside her, she felt loudly roaring the inner turmoil that lately had become almost a part of her, that she had learned to recognize and understand what it preluded to, and that she had hardly and laboriously succeeded in dominating until that moment.

She roused herself, straightened, fighting desperately against that turmoil, trying to control the nausea that had grabbed her.

She greeted with a strained nod. She turned. She walked, stiff and fast, toward the exit. She got out of the sickbay, in the hallway. And she walked. Quickly. Like an automaton.

She reached the elevator. Entered it. Reached her level. Came out.

The door of her room.

Here it is.

Inside! Inside!

She opened quickly the door and hurried inside, closing it behind her and then leaning with her back to it. Jaded. Scared. With the world rumbling and spinning around her.

And with, in her ears, still ringing the response of Phlox.

"**Commander Tucker."**

That name resounded in her mind, repeatedly, as an echo.

_Commander Tucker, Commander Tucker, Commander Tucker ..._

Strong at first and then softer and softer, softer and softer, just as an echo that slowly was fading away,

It became confused in the tumult of her mind and of the world around her.

She closed her eyes, trying to resist, not to be overwhelmed.

She had touched it at first hand: she, an other self, had married him.

It was possible.

It _**could **_have been possible.

But for her it was not possible. Would no longer have been possible. Not in this time, in this universe.

She... she was not even sure she wanted it. How was that human expression? Follow your heart. But she no longer knew what her heart wanted, or maybe, she was incapable of hearing its voice, or more simply it was her heart which was unable to know what it wanted. Her heart was as her mind. Uncertain, insecure, confused.

Or, more honestly, in reality...

Deep down in her mind, in the depth of her heart, as much as they can be addled, T'Pol knew how things exactly stood.

Her heart couldn't tell her what it really wanted. A shattered heart cannot make heard its voice.

It cannot speak.

The truth, the real truth, was that whatever may be the wishes of her heart, now every road was closed to her, nothing that her heart could desire was longer possible.

Not after what she had done.

She had betrayed his trust.

She had lied to him.

She had chased away him.

And she would not have ended back in time, able to remedy, who knows how, to all the mistakes she had made.

_She was not the other T'Pol._

She slipped slowly to the ground, to sit up with her back abandoned against the door.

The world rumbled and was spinning more and more around her.

Indistinct shapes, confused visions crowded into her mind.

They began to whirl and to converge with each other. They got mixed up with each other, got merged, got condensed together. Into one only image.

In front of her closed eyes, two other eyes.

Lorian's eyes.

But they were blue.

They were watching her.

She reopened her eyes like to look at them.

She raised a hand as if to reach them.

She could not.

The eyes were gone.

* * *

_**End of Chapter Seven**_

_**To be Continue**_

* * *

**(*)**_This is a reference to my story "Shore Leave"_


	8. Dissimilar Convergent Paths

**Similitudes**

**By Asso**

**Chapter Eight**

_**Dissimilar Convergent Paths**_

* * *

_My friends, by now sure (at least I hope) that you all be aware of what they want to say all those "There" and "Here," to what they refer, here I am again, to unravel, for my and (I hope ) especially for your pleasure, this peculiar story._

_It's been a pretty long time, but I do not despair that you still want to honour me with your interest._

* * *

**ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo********ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo**

_**There.**_

**...**

"Now we are alone."

The Captain's voice rang out in the silence that permeated the packed hall. It resounded unreal.

"Our friends, our families, our loved ones, our world, no longer exist."

The voice cracked a moment. Then, it perked up. Harsh.

"Don't exist yet."

The voice rose louder. Tougher.

"But they will exist. And they will be condemned to die."

The hard eyes of the Captain fathomed the crew, grievously silent under the balcony.

His voice rose again. Even stronger. Almost fierce.

"We will not allow it. Our mission is not finished. We will cross the time to save them. _Our friends, our families, our loved ones. Our world_."

The voice grew almost shrill.

"Our death will not stop us."

The voice lowered. It regained its composure.

"What the barrier of time that rests with us prevents us from doing, it will be done by our children."

For the first time since the crew had assembled at the call of their Captain, to know from his own lips what was already known and, above all, to find out what would be done, what were the plans, a buzz, not too much hushed, has spread across the crowd.

Archer's hand rose up, along with his voice. "Hush."

The silence, heavy, came back to reign.

The Captain's words rolled down as stones into the hall.

"Out there, Starfleet is not there. Does not yet exist. Nor there are its rules. Now there is only our mission."

The captain was silent for a moment.

He had to make understand.

"We are free from the rules, but we are not free from our duty."

Another pause. Very short.

"We need to..." - A hesitation, brief. – "We can - we must - think of choosing the mates we want. Of having children with them. And..." - A brief pause yet – "...and we have to teach our children what we know. To ensure that they can fulfil our mission."

A final pause. Solemn and tense.

"Our mission will be their mission."

The look of the Captain has ranged over the crowd.

"Dismissed."

He turned hard on his heels.

He retired, fast.

Slowly, silently, the crew crowd took to disperse.

At the end only the officers and non-commissioned officers remained. Still and quiet. On the balcony.

One after the other they too went away.

And, finally, only Trip and T'Pol remained.

Their eyes met.

* * *

_**Here.**_

**...**

Okay. Now things were clear. So to speak.

There had been neither way nor time to go to the doctor and to concert with him something to help T'Pol, however what had happened had in some way eased the sense of compelling urgency that had oppressed him, after he had realized, well, what he had realized, although it certainly did not mean that he did not know that there was no time to lose to find some solution; yet, somehow, the arrival of the other _Enterprise_, with its crew and… with Lorian, had freed up his brain, had cleared up it. His ideas were, now, no longer so confused, even if he didn't know yet what would be best to do on his part to aid, _to save_, T'Pol.

Indeed, _his_ T'Pol, to be exact.

Yeah. Because, whether she wanted to admit it or not, she was his. _His _T'Pol.

Well, maybe, wanting to just be honest, she was the T'Pol who _could _be _his_ T'Pol, just like that other T'Pol was the T'Pol of that other Trip. No, _would be_, because it was something that had to deal with the future. Although… well, no, had been. Sure. _Had been_. Because he, namely that other "he", was dead... rather young, according to what his son had told him. No, that is, the son of that other self... well, but who was also his son, after all.

Right. Dead right. Just as, after all, that other T'Pol was also his own T'Pol.

But then, being things this way, it was not impossible that what the other T'Pol had felt ... mh, would feel - _What a headache, damn it!_ - for that other Trip, could be felt also by his T'Pol for him. For _this_ him.

Maybe... mh, maybe there was something different, quite different from the simple effect of the Trellium, to explain what T'Pol had granted him. Perhaps, his fear, his _ghastly_ fear, that at the basis of the wonderful moments of love that T'Pol had given him there could have been only the drug, had no reason for being. In the end, the other T'Pol had married or would marry, whichever way you want to say, the other Trip, and this certainly could not be explained as a mere influence of the drug.

Okay yielding to passion, and T'Pol, of passion, had in spades, he knew it very well. Okay giving in to the fire of the flesh, of the physical attraction, that not even she could not admit to feel for him. Okay. All of this could have happened under the drug influence, could have been the result of the slackening caused by the Trellium of the inhibitory restraints that T'Pol possessed, as far powerful and well-trained they may have been, she being a Vulcan.

But arriving so far as to get married. Getting to marry him! Just him! Simply because… addict.

No, this was impossible.

There had to be something more. There **was** something more.

Something more... and deeper.

A relief so strong, so powerful, so liberating that Trip almost has had difficulty tolerating, seized him.

He squatted down on the solitary walkway where he was working.

It had not been the drug. The Trellium. No. No and no and no!

And not even the... - Trip grinned openly - …the Vulcan, scientific impulse to explore human sexuality through him.

Exploration of human sexuality. Like hell, exploration of human sexuality!

And... yes! Like hell, the drug!

If T'Pol, that other T'Pol, had wanted or would want to marry that other himself, it was because she felt deep feelings for him, regardless of the drug.

_And that other T'Pol was none other but his own T'Pol._

The differences between the two of them, here, and those other two, there, were in the place and time. And in the circumstances.

It was clear. It was obvious. The other T'Pol, and the other himself, had found themselves to act in very different circumstances from those in which this T'Pol and this himself were. These different circumstances had inevitably had different effects.

There, in that other dimension of the future, T'Pol had to – and _wanted _to or _would want_ to - find her mate. The one who would be her husband. And this mate - this husband - it was him!

Sure, there, it had been needed to find a way to continue the mission and _Enterprise_, therefore, had become a generational ship, where the rules of Starfleet were not, could no longer be valid. However, the looking for a mate and, together with this mate, the wish of giving birth to sons who would carry on with the _Enterprise_'s task, well, this was a choice, certainly not an obligation. T'Pol, the T'Pol of there, then, had made a choice, that she could also have not made. He, oh well, about him there could be no doubt. Here, there, or in any other time or place, he would choose to marry. With T'Pol, of course. But she? Well, she too had chosen to get married and to get married just with him. If all this meant nothing, then there was nothing that could mean anything in this as in any other universe.

What the hell could have something to do, this, with physical attraction? With the exploration of human sexuality? With the drug?!

Nothing. Absolutely nothing!

It was ... it was ... much more. It was...

Trip dared not, could not openly give substance to the word that had formed in his mind.

But he knew - he knew! - that it was so.

_It was love!_

However he, this "he", and T'Pol, this T'Pol, they were here, in this segment of time. Here, they were not alone, cut off from their worlds, or, rather, from the worlds they knew. The pressing - _and liberating_ – imperative, the unparalleled circumstance, that evidently had pushed, or would push, T'Pol, that other T'Pol, to recognize and admit and give vent to the feelings she felt for him, here, in this space-time, there was not. Did not exist. Here, they, he and T'Pol, especially T'Pol, had – how to say? - no stimulus, if not their desire, more or less expressed, able to push them, especially her, to fully open themselves to each other, without restriction.

Here, in the space-time in which they were, they could not enjoy this freedom. The freedom to love freely. Without rules. Without taboos.

Here, T'Pol had to fight against herself and against her taboos.

And… Yeah. Sure. Against her demon. Against the drug.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Just so.

However…

_*Pay well carefully, man.*_

... However, until that time, i.e. until the moment in which this _Enterprise_, the one in which they were now, and that other _Enterprise_, the one that had appeared at the command of ... ahem, his son, both ships were the same, and all the crew was also the same. The Captain, the doctor, he - Trip - and, of course, T'Pol. And until that moment, events, circumstances, had been the same. And the same, it had been their lives, their personal histories. So… so the damnation of this T'Pol was the same of that other T'Pol. And so... yeah, sure... also the other T'Pol had to fight against her demon.

And… and if…?

It was clear now. Because of this demon, because of the shame she felt for having fallen prey of it, and perhaps ... yes ... perhaps for fear of ruining even his life because of this her demon if she had continued to be with him, T'Pol had kicked him. And brutally. To prevent him from insisting in wanting to be with her. She had wanted to disgust him. Clear. Clear! **Clear!** So he would not attempt to continue to stay with her, with the risk that he might discover her secret.

But… yeah… the other T'Pol had stayed or would stay with him. Had married or would marry him. And that meant that…

He knew T'Pol, after all. He... knew her very well. And, wherever she might be, in whichever circumstances she might act, whichever T'Pol she might be, she would never have agreed to bind herself to someone if she had not felt totally free to do so. Free from her taboos, from herself.

And from her drug.

T'Pol was a limpid spirit. He had tasted the splendour of her depths. **(°)**

So? Clear. Once again, clear. The other T'Pol had managed or would manage to get herself free from her demon. She would not have got married if it had not been so, or if, at least, she had not been sure to be able to get rid of the monster, to have, yes, to have… _the means_ to do so.

But how? What were these _means_? In which way had she done or – _oh, damn it to hell!__The headache was likely to grow greatly worse!_ - would she do? Alone? By herself? Difficult, extremely difficult, judging from what he had seen her do. With the help of Phlox? Possible, but unlikely. Phlox already knew and, therefore, she could already count on his help, but, apparently, it did not seem that it was of great benefit. So? Maybe… _with his own help?_ _**He, **__was the means?_

This… well!... this could be more than possible. Perhaps, more accurately, more than simply likely.

Indeed, it was so highly probable that it was virtually certain.

Why? Well, because...

_*Let's see.*_

First of all, it didn't have to be forget that Phlox, when ... well, yes, it was so… when the doctor had realized that T'Pol was up to combine something seriously wrong against herself, had come to the decision to have recourse to his aid, thus, on two feet, without this being programmed. And that should have meant something. And, he did not understand what the hell this wanted to signify, but it should not even have been forgotten the strange thing that had happened to him just as T'Pol... yes, just as T'Pol was going to get herself into trouble, the strange thing that - it was a fact - had pushed the doctor to ask for his intervention. This, too, damn it, meant something.

But apart from all this, that he had not the means to frame well, there was something on which his brain could reason with greater ability to connect the facts and his knowledges.

By marrying him, T'Pol could not have thought – wouldn't think - not to share with him everything about herself. The neuropressure sessions, before they become, well, what they had become, had been also a succession of wonderful moments of intimacy, not merely physical, but especially of the heart. T'Pol had opened herself with him. She had told him a lot of things about herself and Vulcan and the way of living and thinking of the Vulcans, which, thinking about it now, was an additional, powerful evidence of how profoundly she was tying herself to him. Vulcans do not reveal nothing of themselves without that there exists something deep, very deep, capable of inducing them to do so. Like... yes, like love.

Trip shook his head, trying to wake up from these wonderful and consoling thoughts. Wonderful and consoling, yes, but also such to deviate him from his reasonings, in that moment.

_*So, let's go ahead.*_

T'Pol had told him more than once that marriage was for the Vulcans a true communion of life, much more than for Humans, in a sense, regardless of whether their marriages were generally planned ever since they were infants and that consequently it was not granted them a true freedom of choice. But, de facto, some degree of freedom there was, even if rather limited. In fact, there was a period of time, at the beginning of marriage, where the couple lived together in search of this communion of life, and if this test did not work, it was possible to nullify the marriage. Well, to be honest, it was the male who repudiated his wife. So much for advanced civilization!

Anyway, however things were, T'Pol, as far she was a very special Vulcan, was still a Vulcan, a true Vulcan, which meant that, she being a true Vulcan, she, regardless of any circumstance, could not marry someone, share her life with someone on whom she didn't feel she could rely totally, namely someone to whom she did not feel she could reveal all her secrets, or who, come in knowledge of her secrets, weren't able not to make her feel ashamed for them, whatever they might be, and for one, in particular, of these secrets; and not able also to be with her in any thing, to help her in any thing, even in achieving the aim to get rid of her demon.

Okay. And so far, nothing to object. Everything was going smoothly. But there was more. The condition under which she would have been able to get married was that she were already free from her demon before the wedding, or, at least, on the mend, so to speak, sure of being able to come out from her damnation, in possession of the means - _*Yeah, in possession_ _of the means*_ - to do so. This, de facto, had been already established in his examination. And the other element already acquired was that she was not able to get rid of her demon by herself.

So?

Well, clear once again. The person she had married, _namely him_, could not be but the same person who, managing, somehow, to penetrate her barrier, to make her understand that there was nothing to be ashamed in sharing with him this secret, that, indeed, in this way, it would be possible to work together to fight her demon, with well-better chance to win the victory, had succeeded, together with her, in freeing her from the drug, from the monster that held her into its claws.

There were no alternative.

At this point the concatenation of his reasonings - _*Concatenation of his reasonings?*_ - was complete and perfect. Unexceptionable. Entirely logical, as T'Pol would say.

Damn! But what the hell had she done to him, that woman? How the hell could he find himself to think so, just as she would have done?

Trip found himself thinking that, somehow, this influence on him on T'Pol's part did not allow him to act - _to act with her_ - as indeed he should act. Perhaps it would have been necessary that he were more resolute with her, that... - how to say? ...that he _grabbed _her, from time to time, instead ... well, yes ... instead of getting grabbed by her; not always, this not, but definitely often. Perhaps, when he had surprised her to do ... well, what she was doing, he would not have had to withdraw, should not have gone after this impulse, but should have followed the other impulse, the one that drove him to reveal himself to her.

Oh to hell! No use crying over spilled milk. Still supposing that he had not been right in acting as he had acted, which was all to demonstrate.

To hell. Yes. Now these things were so, and he had to… _'work'_ in those conditions, without asking many questions. He was like that. And, T'Pol ... yes, he was liked by her so, exactly the way he was. Sure. Even when at the base of their troubled relationship there had been really only physical attraction, well... attractive males on Enterprise there were in abundance, and - Trip, even at that time, could not help but sneer to himself - their athletic Captain would certainly not disdained to serve as a medium for the sexual explorations of T'Pol. Still admitted that his one-time friend could be able to take off from his head their mission for a moment and go back to become aware of those who were with him to accomplish that mission.

Okay. So. This was the... concatenation of his reasonings. With its incontrovertible conclusions.

It was worth to summarize.

**First.** T'Pol would not have got married if she had not been drug-free, or on the way to be so; if she had not been able to fully give herself to the mate of her life, _to her husband_, without… interference.

**Second.** She had got married. Therefore, she had been able to free herself from her demon, or had been sure she could do it.

**Third.** Alone, or with only the help of Phlox, she could not manage to do it.

**Fourth.** Consequently, someone else had helped her.

**Fifth.** Aside from Phlox, for the obvious reason that he was a doctor, T'Pol wouldn't have entrusted herself to anyone who weren't for her something more than just a friend, or worse, just a colleague.

**Sixth. **There was only one person who was for her something more than just a friend or a simple colleague and this person was him, Trip. Just think that she had come or would come so far as to marry him! This was something that no one, not even T'Pol, could deny. Yeah, not even her. Much as frighteningly stubborn, to the point, sometimes, to deny the reality, if this was in conflict with her logic, there was no way that, for this matter, she could oppose to such an assertion.

Conclusion? He, Trip, that other Trip, had succeeded, or he would, in making so that T'Pol opened up herself to him entirely. And in making her free from her demon. Along with her, of course.

The other himself had done it or would do it! Sure!

But if that other one, who was none other but himself, had succeeded, why should not succeed he too?

Evidently it was possible. There was a way.

But which one?

* * *

_**There.**_

**...**

_Free._

No.

Untrue.

She wasn't free.

She was a slave.

Of the demon that would lose her.

Of the Trellium.

And she… she could not face… _him._

She could not.

She could not reveal to him everything. All her lies. The depth of her shame. Of her down fall.

_And being told from him that he did not want her anymore._

Just now. Just now that every barrier could be broken. Now, that none of her countrymen could longer make her feel ashamed.

Just now, that for her race she did not exist. _Did not yet exist. _That she could feel free to enfranchise herself, without being disgracefully blamed, from the cage of taboos that her breed erected around all its members. That nothing that bound her to her world, none of those who had been her world, _who would be her world_, not even her mother, could know anything about her. Because she did not yet exist.

_Now, that she could feel free to dive in - and swim in - the clear sea that he offered to her._

But she wasn't free to do it.

She was not free to do anything. Nothing if not helplessly rolling on the filthy straw of her personal cage, the cage that she had built with her own hands. And whose bars would shrink more and more, until to choke her.

And... and if a little of that clarity of spirit that had been hers, still remained inside her, she could not think to tie him to her, to exploit ignobly the… the love, this was the right name, that he felt - he _had_ felt - for her; to lean on him; to draw strength from him.

Because… it would not serve. She knew she was not longer able to get out of the abyss into which she had fallen, by now she had understood that. And if he had gone on to stay with her, she would eventually have dragged in that abyss him too; she would have made his life a living hell; she would have condemned him to an unhappiness that he did not deserve. He... _she knew_... he would not leave her. With love or… or without love, and **this** was what would have happened, he would remain at her side. He had already done it. He had given of this a sure proof.

_And he would end up suffocating into her cage. Together with her._

And this ... at least this ... she could not ... should not allow it.

For... for "_**what**_" she felt for him.

For this - also for this, as well as the awareness that, if he had kept on sharing her life, he, sooner or later, inevitably, would have ended up discovering her secret, her _shameful_ secret - she had... had chased away him from her in such a bad way. To be sure he did not try to insist, to want to continue... to be with her, to be her "him".

But… but, in reality...

…Honestly...

…_Finally honestly_...

…What she_ indeed_ could not do, it was... it was to talk to him, to confront him, to be told that he… that he…

Now he knew. Before no. Before, he could have thought that she was stupid, stupidly stubborn, stupidly prey of what he called – _lovingly_ _teasing her -_ her silly taboos. He could have thought ... could have thought that, in the end, she felt nothing for him. He would have got angry, would have got indignant, would have felt outraged.

But he would not have despised her.

And... and ... yes ... he would have continued to love her. She knew this, she was sure. Even from afar, even thinking of not being corresponded, he would have continued to love her. And this ... at least this would have been of some consolation to her.

But now he knew. He knew!

No. No and no! She could not - COULD NOT! - hear from him, from the man of firm principles, honest, sincere, she had learnt to know, from… from the gentleman he was, that he would try with any means to help and defend and protect her from her demon, just as he had already demonstrated that he would do, but that he ... that he could not ...

_That she, also wanting to leave painfully aside that she could no longer have his respect, could no longer have - ESPECIALLY! ABOVE ALL THINGS! - his love!_

No! She could not face him!

COULD NOT!

T'Pol spun on herself faster than a lightning bolt.

And she ran away.

_**She ran away!**_

On her back his gaze burned more than a firebrand.

* * *

_**Here.**_

**...**

Sooner or later the time would come. She knew that.

By now the news was public domain.

On that other ship, that other _Enterprise_, there was someone - and it was its Captain - who was her son. Hers and of Commander Tucker. Of Trip.

And Trip would seek her, claiming from her what she had denied him and that, rightly, he thought that she could not deny him.

And how would she done to justify her denial? She and that other T'Pol were the same person and therefore it was… only logical they harboured the same feelings. And the other T'Pol had married Trip, _her_ Trip. And why… _why on earth!..._ would that other T'Pol even marry that other Trip, who was none other than this Trip, if she had not nurtured really deep feelings for him? But, being things so, as she and that other T'Pol were nothing but the same T'Pol, with the same feelings, why should she, the T'Pol who was here, say that between her and _her _Trip there was nothing? _That… by now she had learned enough from him with regard to human sexual habits to allow her to leave him? Indeed, to chase him away, as she had done?_

Commander Tucker, Trip, _her Trip_, was not a fool. He would have realized that there was something else. _Something hidden._

And he would seek her, would seek confrontation with her, to understand what really lay behind her absurd denial, behind her unreasonably edgy hardness.

But she could not tell him what there was behind her incomprehensible behaviour.

She, by now, was sentenced to lie.

She could not reveal to him the real reason for her withdrawal.

_The drug. The Trellium._

But how could she reveal to him that she, just she, the faultless T'Pol, the disdainful T'Pol, the perfect T'Pol, the logical T'Pol, the cold T'Pol, the ... the - as he would have said - the _I-know-all-and-I-never-commit errors_ T'Pol, had fallen so low? To the point ... yes ... to the point of risking even the mission to which she had joined to provide her ... - T'Pol smiled bitterly to herself, just like a human female would do - ... her indispensable, irreplaceable contribution?

It would be pathetic, more than pathetic, to try to account to him for her error, by saying to him, revealing to him that he - just he! - at the bottom, had been the cause; that she had attempted to break free from her inhibitions, from what he called – softly smiling - her taboos, for him; to be free – _to be able_ - to give him, totally and completely, what she thought he desired from her. Just as a human female would have been able to do. And that she wasn't able to give him in the way she would have liked to do.

_Because she wanted to be for him all she thought that he might desire her to be for him._

With this great outcome!

Talking to him? Confronting him? Telling him everything? And with what result? He... he would have despised her. Yes, just this would have happened! Instead of… of the love she knew he had for her, she would have his contempt!

Or... or maybe not? This ... oh, this was not impossible! He was him. Was Trip. Maybe he would not despise her, maybe he would even continue to love her.

He was able to understand. He knew how to understand. And knew… how to love. Without restrictions. Without stakes. This, **this** was the great, immense gift, that his humaneness had given her. There was no logic, at least no _heartless_ logic, in him, about feelings, the logic that drove, even in this, the Vulcans. He… followed his heart. He, if he loved, loved, and nothing else. The rest did not matter to him. And, in fact, he had already tried to approach her, to make her understand that he was in any case close to her.

But she had rejected him. Again. Incapable, shameful, of opening really up herself to him.

But how could she have done? _How could she do?_

How could she have fully enjoyed - _how could she truly enjoy_ - his love, when, inevitably, it would be changed from what it originally was, as a result of the truth about herself she would reveal to him? How could she not sink - his colloquialism seized her - through the floor, by accepting a love that would be unavoidably different from what he could offer her, if she had not done what she had done?

And... and then...

She knew, by now, to have no chance. The descent on which she had ventured was without return, and even if he had wanted to understand and to forgive her and had wanted to continue to be with her, the result would be a life of hell. For both. The drug was eating her, and would destroy her. And she ... she ... if she really felt something for him, could not allow him to come dragged into the abyss together with her!

This - at least this - she had to avoid it.

And then again… ultimately…

Honestly...

_Finally honestly..._

She did not want to... could not ... bear the thought of the shame that she would have felt if he had come to know.

With others, who weren't him, it would have been simply impossible.

But with him, it would be possible, yes, but absolutely impossible to put up with.

He was him!

She could not bear to be for him less than what he thought she was!

The opinion he had of her was worth more than anything.

Better his anger, better even his hatred, than his pity, than the understanding, sympathetic... and disconsolate bad judgment that he would have of her!

T'Pol turned off the useless candle with which she had been trying to find peace in an unhelpful meditation.

There was plenty to do. It would have been much more appropriate and more fruitful to go for doing something really useful, if not for her, for the ship. The duty ... oh sure, the duty was the duty.

Very Vulcan. Very... a la T'Pol.

She got up slowly.

Her sensitive nose picked up the glints of his smell that still hovered in her room.

The longing for him, the nostalgia for him, took her. Pungent.

Something moist struggled to invade her eyes.

She had no choice. She had to reject him again.

And she knew how to do.

The logic - her hard, iron, _stupid _logic - would help her.

It would be enough to tell him that, if their counterparts had married, that did not mean that they, the two of them here, could or should do so. And if he had insisted, it would be enough... it would be enough to point out to him - again, in some way - that all she had wanted from him was not more than a sexual relationship. An… exploratory scientific intercourse.

This, too, very Vulcan. Very... a la T'Pol.

But it would not be easy.

T'Pol turned, and laid her glance on the drawer of her cabinet.

No. It would not be easy.

Without...

She opened the drawer and took out the syringe from it.

... without help.

* * *

_**There.**_

**...**

Okay. Now things were clear. So to speak.

Trip watched T'Pol as she literally ran away from him.

She had no intention to talk to him, to face him.

And, after all, he could understand her.

What she had done was serious. Serious for the circumstances in which they stood, all of them. Serious for the danger that it could cause to the ship, to their mission. T'Pol was the First Officer, damnit! And serious... – Trip shuddered unconsciously – serious in itself, to the maximum degree, because, above all and everyone, it put in danger her. And tremendously! T'Pol would have ended up getting irremediably lost, because of that!

But the fact was that, for her, it was even more serious, because she was a Vulcan, and she could not bear the thought that she had done what she had done; that she, just she, the faultless T'Pol, the disdainful T'Pol, the perfect T'Pol, the logical T'Pol, the cold T'Pol, the... the… - a thin pain grabbed Trip, as, in him, it resounded clear the words of affection with which he so often had addressed her, lovingly teasing her - …the_ I-know-all-and-I-never-commit-errors _T'Pol, had fallen so low. At least according to her. In her idea.

And... - Trip tortured the inside of his cheek with his tongue - ...and, above all, she could not bear the thought that he - just he - had come aware of what she had done. And in that way.

She could not stand to say what had happened to her to anyone. Just to the doctor, because he was the doctor and she desperately needed to be helped. But to him, Trip, surely not. With no colleague, not even with the most trusty of friends, she would have agreed to open herself about her error, about what she considered a fault, a tremendous fault. And he was not a colleague. He was not a friend. He was much more than that. This was something that no one, not even T'Pol, could deny. Yeah, not even her. Much as frighteningly stubborn, to the point, sometimes, to deny the reality, if this was in conflict with her logic, there was no way that, for this matter, she could oppose to such an assertion.

The consequence of all this, _of what he was for T'Pol_, it was that the shame she would have felt if someone had come to know about her fault, was multiplied to the nth degree because the one who had discovered it, it was him. And because this had happened like this.

Who could know? Maybe one day, just by virtue of what he was for her, she might even have arrived to reveal it to him, might have succeeded in drowning her shame. But it should have been her to make the decision, it should not have happened like that, and Trip wondered for the umpteenth time if it had been right that he had followed his impulse.

But... but she was destroying herself right under his eyes, and just when the emergency had sprung!

And not only that. Yes, maybe one day she would open herself to him, but... and if this had not happened? At the end it could have happened that she might collapse under the weight of the drug, without anyone - ANYONE - knowing anything, without anyone being able to help her. He, Trip, unable to do so because he hadn't let her know that he knew, and the doctor unable to do so because it was clear that de facto it was so. Not for nothing Phlox had decided, so, offhand, to ask him for his help, even if pushed by what had just happened to him just while T'Pol decided to continue to ruin herself and that he was not able to properly frame.

Even of that, he would have to speak with T'Pol, or rather with the doctor. But there had been for sure neither way nor time to go to him, despite the urgency, that he knew there was, to help T'Pol.

Now, however, the waters had become subsided. After all, now they, all of them, had a lot of time.

Except T'Pol.

She... - Trip felt something inside, a tremor, a knot of pain that was unbearable - ... she had no time.

Perhaps… perhaps, in spite of everything, it would have been better that he hadn't caught her aback, hadn't confronted her, when he had seen her inject herself with that damn drug.

But... no. No. Which tool would he have had in his hand, if he had behaved so, to try, at least to try, to pull her back from the ditch where she had fallen?

Yeah. Sure. But... and so, now that she knew that he knew, which tool did he have?

T'Pol did not want to talk to him.

Because she could not bear the idea that he knew.

_She did not want him to know. _

Why? But simply because, for her, he mattered much more than anyone else and she could not tolerate being belittled in his opinion.

Because…

_*Because…*_

Exploration of human sexuality, uh? Like hell, exploration of human sexuality!

And… and yes! Like hell even the drug!

In spite of everything, in spite of the situation where all of them were, in spite of the uncertainty about their destiny, in spite even of T'Pol's drama, that was also his, a relief so strong, so powerful, so liberating that Trip almost has had difficulty tolerating, seized him.

He squatted down on the now solitary balcony.

It had not been the drug. The Trellium. No. No and no and no!

Trip saw again in his mind T'Pol as she turned and fled like lightning away from him, desperately, to prevent him from saying to her that it was time to talk.

Why had she done it? She, drug or non-drug, was strong and able to dominate any situation. Sure. But… yeah… but how could she be able to dominate a situation where she would have to reveal to him that what for her was a highest shame had also pushed her to commit an even bigger shame? To chase him away, ignominiously, because unable to really believe in him? _To hide, to deny, what she really felt for him?_

Of course, there was the possibility that the shame of T'Pol was also the shame of having to reveal to him that at the base of everything, at the base of their wonderful moments of love, there was only the drug, her demon. But if before - on the grounds that he knew T'Pol like no one else ever could, that he knew the limpid spirit that T'Pol was, because he, and only he, had tasted the splendour of her depths (°) - he could only hope that it weren't so, now, after he had seen her escaping that way from him, he knew he was not mistaken, to be in the right.

T'Pol had run away from him for…

Trip dared not, could not openly give substance to the word that had formed in his mind.

But he knew - he knew! - that it was so.

_It was love!_

T'Pol ran away from him for love. For the love she felt for him.

She would not have run away like that, if she had not loved him. By now he was aware, knew her sin. Which importance could now have, having to say to him also that the drug had been the cause of everything, even of her surrendering to the attraction, undeniable, that she felt for him? Or was it rather a shame for her much more intolerable having to say to him that, despite her feelings for him, despite **his** feelings for her, of which she was well aware, she had not had the courage, the strength, to believe in him?

And, in a sense, the very fact that the new situation in which they found themselves, enabling them to love each other freely, had arisen just when she was experiencing her drama and had not been able to make him partaker of it, had sunk her into abject despair, to the point of running away from him, to the point of denying him any chance to help her.

Yes. T'Pol harboured deep feelings for him, she was in love with him.

Now it was sure.

You can't feel ashamed of who you don't love.

But if, before falling prey to her demon, it could have been difficult for her to admit her love because of the cage of inhibitions and foolish taboos in which her being a Vulcan had locked up her, afterward, for her it had become even impossible, because the cage in which she had locked up her by herself was even more stifling.

Oh yes, now things were clear. All. Even why T'Pol had chased him away. Because of her demon, because of the shame she felt for having fallen prey of it. And perhaps ... yes ... perhaps for fear of ruining even his life because of this her demon if she had continued to be with him. Because of this, T'Pol had kicked him. And brutally. To prevent him from insisting in wanting to be with her. She had wanted to disgust him. Clear. So he would not attempt to continue to stay with her, with the risk that he might discover her secret.

And all this… - Trip smiled bitterly to himself, as once again and even more clear-cut, more definite, this thought, which should have given him nothing but happiness, sounded pretty sad, at that moment. - …all this because T'Pol was in love with him.

What stupid dirty tricks plays the love!

It leads you even to believe that who loves you can stop loving you, or even can despise you for something that you did. It makes you blind to the point that you can not realize that who loves you, who really loves you, can only try to help you, to be near you.

But T'Pol had lot of justifications, to well think of it. As far as love, she - and this made her so immensely unique and precious - was completely, totally, absolutely inexperienced. She could not, was not able to understand anything about love. She had even difficulty to acknowledge it. Perhaps, indeed almost for sure, it was true that if it had been granted her enough time, she would have ended up understanding and really she could have ended up opening herself up to him, if she could convince herself that, with him, she could.

The thrust of love is a powerful boost.

Trip allowed himself to bask into this consoling thought. Only an instant. Just an instant.

Time. Sure, time. But time had it with T'Pol. Just as she could have really not much time to escape the beast before the beast could devour her, so she had not had time to realize that he, _her _Trip, could be her safe haven. Her lifeline. He had found out by himself what she had done, had surprised her while her demon was feeding on her, while she was giving to the beast herself.

And that was for her impossible to put up with.

No, she would not allow him to make it clear to her how he only cared that she could break away from her drug, that for him, she would be always and only his beloved T'Pol, that nothing and no one, not even the her demon - Nothing, _nothing_, **nothing**!… Never, _never_, **never**! - could ever diminish the high opinion he had of her. **And, least of all, the love he had for her.**

She would not allow him to speak to her, to penetrate her barrier, to give her his help, made not with the science and, of course, even the friendship, like that of Phlox, but with something else, something much more powerful.

She would have prevented him from saving her with the mightiest weapon that can exist.

With the love.

How could he break that barrier?

Yet there had to be a way, there had to be.

But which one?

* * *

_**Here.**_

**...**

_Which one?_

Trip stood up.

His brain was whirling.

_Which one?! Well ... but…_

_*Man! - You have an advantage over that other Trip, a big advantage!*_

Sure! Because he knew things that the other Trip could not know.

No matter how things may have gone on that other side, his counterpart could not know ahead of time that he and T'Pol would get married and that the two of them would have a son. That other himself could even have wished this, perhaps he could even have been fighting for the wedding to happen, but could not know this a priori.

He, yes, he could. He knew this.

And on that table he should play his cards.

The breach in which he should try to creep in so as to penetrate the barrier of T'Pol was that.

Trip made a slight smile, thoughtfully.

He turned, fast. He lowered himself down with skill and speed from the catwalk and then walked quickly toward the exit of the engine room.

It would not be difficult to him to track down T'Pol, wherever she was and whatever she was doing and, wherever she was and whatever she was doing, he knew she would not refuse an offer of help on his part. It would have been… illogical.

And while they would work together, he would speak to her of their son.

And of their marriage.

* * *

_**There.**_

**...**

_Which one?_

Trip stood up.

His brain was whirling.

_*Which one?! Well ... but…*_

Well but... sure. The same he had followed when he had surprised her as she ... well yes, well ... as she was doing what she was doing.

When he had seen T'Pol do so, he had felt strongly, at the same time, the boost to retreat, to avoid confrontation with her; and the impetus to tackle her openly. And he had impulsively followed this second urge.

It had been as if something had broken inside him, or rather, as if someone, another himself, had burst off from him, powerfully, overwhelmingly, asserting himself... yes, asserting himself on him.

He was a man of action, but also a man of doubt, in some way. His life had always been based on action, on quick decisions and sometimes impulsive, but, often it had happened that the doubt, the indecision, had restrained him from doing whole hog - completely and to the full - what he thought should be done. To think of it, even with T'Pol it had been so. He had always 'acted', so to speak, with her, but ... behold ... he had never 'acted' all the way, had never followed, without a second thought, without thinking twice, what his heart suggested to him.

That time, no. He had acted. Just as he thought that he had really had to act.

It had been ... yes, had been right. To well think of it, his constant afterthoughts about this were stupid, illogical to say it with T'Pol, because if he had followed the impulse to retreat, it was not unlikely that he would condemned T'Pol - and himself - with or without the Trellium, to a long, winding path of doubt and indecision that would have risked of distancing her away from him even more than how, seemingly, it was at the time.

_Seemingly_, yes. Because, in reality, now, T'Pol was not at all far from him. Indeed, she was very close.

She… was in his grasp.

He, in some way, had grabbed her.

He had come out into the open. He had faced her and her demon, taking the bull by the horns.

He had grabbed her, yes. Without thinking twice.

And T'Pol felt grasped. And was afraid of being grabbed.

It was her, the one who usually and normally_ 'dominated'_, persons and things and facts; who _'grabbed'_. But, in grasping the Trellium, she had ended up being grabbed by it, and, to fill up the measure, she had also been grabbed by him, Trip. All this, but… sure… but _especially_ being grasped by him... this was something that she did not know how to deal with or manage.

T'Pol was confused and scared, she felt trapped in a vice, into a grasp, from which she did not know how to get out, no matter what she did or thought to do. It was something that had never happened to her, that she did not know how to cope with. Hers had been a life of certainties, _of strict and logical certainties_, and now she no longer had certainties. Or, rather, she believed not to have them. She was not able to understand that she had yet one certainty. That would never have abandoned her.

Him.

Or, to be more in line with the idea… grabbing his mind, the certainty of his grip.

And that was the table where he should play his cards.

He had to grab her again, in a grip stronger than that of the Trellium, stronger even than that of her confusion and fear, in a grip from which she no longer would want to go out and in which she would be happy to stay.

She needed to be grabbed in a grasp that were… that were her lifeline. Yes. But she did not know.

She was unable to understand that _**his**_ grasp would be her lifeline.

_For a lifetime._

She was unable to understand that she would be happy in his grasp.

_For a lifetime._

And she was unable to understand that she was already happy to be in his grasp.

He had to make all this clear to her.

The new, unique, unrepeatable situation that had come to be created on _Enterprise _supplied him with the way.

_He had to grasp her again, **f**__**orcefully**__, in an utterly unexpected way, able to catch her totally off guard, to wrong-foot her completely. And he had to prevent her from squirming stubbornly to escape from his grab._

Trip smiled slyly.

He turned, fast. He left speedily the balcony and then walked quickly toward the exit.

In an amen he was in his quarters, leaving behind a little crowd of puzzled men and women, that he had not even noticed.

He closed the door behind him.

He looked around.

Where was it? Where the hell was it?

He began to search, with… a certain amount of frenzy.

Still, he was sure. It was there, somewhere.

Maybe...

His face lit up.

But of course! Amidst the socks in the drawer! And where else?

He opened the drawer and threw off all the socks in the biggest mess.

_*Here! Here it is!*_

He took it out of its case and put it in his breast-pocket, then turned and ran toward the door.

In a flash he was out, practically almost running, once again heedless of those who saw him darting in the corridors.

Okay. There he was. Her room. It was late, by now. Almost certainly she was there. Indeed... oh hell! ... He could... he could feel her! She was there for sure. To lick her wounds, maybe trying to meditate. Maybe… he frowned… _maybe…_

He typed in the code apprehensively, almost with rage.

The door opened.

He came in, like a fury, while the door closed behind him.

Sitting on the cushions in the middle of the room, in front of the lighted candle in the twilight, there was T'Pol. Pale and drawn, her eyes rimmed. And wet.

And gorgeous. Like her, in her blue pyjamas.

He stopped abruptly just in front of her. Panting

She lifted her wan and delicious face and looked at him strangely, amazed, opening wide those her large wonderful eyes.

She jumped up.

"Commander! I do not want ..."

Trip fell down on his knees before her.

She broke off, suddenly, remaining open-mouthed.

Her eyes got lowered down on him, even more wide open, goggled.

He watched her forcefully, for a brief instant.

Then, finally, he moved.

Without taking his smiling blue eyes off her, he brought his right hand to his breast-pocket and pulled it out of, then stretched out his arm towards her.

He opened his hand and it sparkled in his palm, more than the candle.

"T'Pol, will you marry me?"

* * *

_**End of Chapter Eight**_

_**TBC**_

**...**

(°)Please, read my "Depths" on TriaxianSilk, or - even better - on my site, Ploomeksoupandpecapie, to understand this.


End file.
